


Spontaneous Symmetry Breaking

by L8tr_g8tr



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy - Fandom
Genre: Adulting sucks, Gonna go hide now, M/M, More an AU than anything I guess, The Author Regrets Everything, Think I need someone to explain physics to me, WIP, bad author, because life happens, but honestly this ship has so much potential, intermittent update schedule, its been 5 years, more a humorous experiment than anything tbh, no cookie, such internal anxiety, terrible writing beware, the author is trying to gain courage for another story, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2020-06-16 03:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19636333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L8tr_g8tr/pseuds/L8tr_g8tr
Summary: Title may change b/c I’m an idiot.Spontaneous symmetry breaking: a spontaneous process of symmetry breaking, by which a physical system in a symmetric state ends up in an asymmetric state.A chance encounter between two boys nearly has unforeseen consequences years later. Forced into marriage, Peter will face unique challenges as the first male Kree Consort in history as he learns how to balance being a Ravager, a good spouse, and the Dark Aster’s den mother.





	1. Chapter 1

Strangely, the first inkling Peter has that something is amiss isn’t when his ship is shot down on a barren moon near the boarder between Kree and Nova space. He’s a Ravager, a pirate, and thus not very popular with law enforcement of any type so being shot at comes with the job. Be they the highest of the high or the lowest of the low- no one is spared from the Ravagers’s plundering and something about Peter just seems to get under everyone’s skin like nothing else in the known universe. And since he’s got a bad problem of constantly pissing people off it’s not even a surprise that someone is trying to catch him.

No, what clues Peter in that something more is going on is the hallway his guards are using to bodily drag him to his cell. His captor, a female cyborg of indeterminate species flavor, is ahead of him blocking his view of their route, her hips swaying smugly as she follows the Chitauri guard leading the way, Peter hanging between another pair. Up to this point and all the way through the - frankly- ridiculously massive Kree warship, the Terran had been forced to squint in the very low lighting in order to see out of his one still functioning eye. And since he’s been forced to pay so much attention all that very long way, he notices when things just don’t add up because there is no way their current path is taking him to the brig, not judging by what he can see of the hallway itself and by how quiet this area seems to be. The lighting especially is strange; it’s still too dark for the Terran’s liking but, even as utilitarian as the Kree are, they don’t put emergency guide lighting in the flooring of their prisoner cell area. Peter frowns, scanning his surroundings and unconsciously digging his feet in at the strangeness of it all until the pain of the action makes him stop. He’s not at his best, admittedly, but the only thing he can conclude doesn’t make any sense; why would they be hauling him to what has to be the ship’s residential area?

While Peter is looking around, he accidentally catches the eye of the frowning Chitauri guard on his right doing the same thing. The guard scowls, tightening his grip and aggravating the injuries to Peter’s arm until the Terran emits a pain sound. Peter glares and spits in the other’s eyes, earning a curse, a slap and a glare before they both go back to ignoring each other. The Terran takes pride in his battered state, shooting a cocky grin at the woman when she looks over her shoulder at him, his smile widening as her expression clouds into one of the most spectacular scowls he’s ever seen. He led her on a merry chase before eventually being caught but now that he's been taken prisoner, Peter wants to get as much enjoyment as he can before they execute him.

Even if it's petty.

_Especially_ if it's petty.

On the ride to their destination, the woman had taken great pleasure in describing to him, in astonishing detail, everything she had planned for him. In a way, Peter understood her spite; he'd made her work hard to catch him, had pulled out every trick in the Ravager playbook to evade her and now that she had her prize, she wanted Peter to know he was going to suffer for it.

She was creative, he'd give her that.

But she was also arrogant in her victory and the emotion had blinded her to any danger he could still pose even cuffed. So, when she had leaned in a second time to whisper more to nightmare fuel into his ear, he'd done what any reasonable person in his position would do: he'd head-butted her in the face before shorting out the lock on his wrist shackles and proceeded to beat the Hell out of the first guard within reach. Thanks to her, Peter knew he was being taken to a Kree warship and it was common knowledge that Kree prisoners usually left such a ship in considerably more pieces than when they entered. Peter had literally nothing to lose by starting a massive brawl with everyone inside the small Chitauri ship transporting them, had no reason to hold back or do anything other than lash out at everyone who came near him. He hadn’t stood much of a chance against guards in full armor but, by the time they had him restrained again, Peter had at least gotten a piece of everyone.

Pity he may loose two molars for his efforts.

Even more of a pity that loosing two molars may be the least of his problems in the next few minutes.

"This is not the way to the cells!" The woman's voice rouses him from his thoughts and, with some difficulty, Peter pulls his head up, wondering when he let it fall as he blinks in her direction. The adrenalin from both the chase and the fight has long since begun to fade, fatigue spreading out to take its place, and now Peter’s starting to really feel the beating they gave him. He's looking forward to sitting down, though laying down sounds better- anything but standing because he suspects his right ankle is broken, if the grinding, burning agony zinging up his leg with every breath is anything to go by.

Maybe if he asks nicely, he could get some painkillers before the torture begins?

"...mistake!" The woman shrieks and Peter realizes that he's missed some of the conversation. And that he's looking at the floor again, his head pounding something awful, one eye feeling like its about to fall out of his head, his chest and throat tight because the air around him seems to have the same consistency as water. He’s very tired and he badly wants to lay down.

_Uh oh._ The simple thought takes an absurd amount of time to surface from the fog that has infected his mind. He should be alarmed but as the woman continues to have her meltdown, Peter can't summon the energy to be bothered. He feels his legs giving out under his own weight and hears his Chitauri guards making noises of surprise as he sags limply between them. Unconsciousness reaches for him and Peter lets it role over him without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fair warning, its been a while since I’ve posted anything. That means that there will be issues- probably all across the board- and if you don’t want to commit to a multi chapter, world building stories then I thank you very much for the time you spent here today.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Peter wakes, prompted more by the vibration of heavy feet through the floor than due to the voices of whoever has entered his cell. Admittedly, his visitors are making no effort to hide themselves as they seem to look for him but, dear Lord, they are loud; loud enough to wake the dead, which is something he feels is significant given how awful he feels. The Terran inhales sharply, trying to focus through the pain as well as an eye partially swollen shut to take stock of himself, but it’s no use and he finally gives up, realizing he needs serious help or else he’s going to die under this table.

Wait- table?

How’d he get under a table?

His contemplation of his location gets put on hold as someone moves the furniture he’s half under and an unfamiliar male blue Kree peers down at him.

The other male has to be pushing eight feet in height and is dressed in light armor that’s predominantly green but topped with a silver hood and silver accents on the belt, fasteners, and boots. Like most blue Kree, the male is built like he’s been hewn from a wall, square bodied and square jawed with a hooked nose partially obscured by the outline of a modified breathing mask that surrounds both nose and mouth. In one hand, the Kree carries a large black and silver hammer with an elongated handle that altogether looks like it weighs as much as Peter does but the Kree holds it without any discernible issue. Pale blue eyes peer down at the Terran and dark eyebrows raise in surprise.

“‘...Lo.” Quill greets in his most friendly tone but it comes out rough and hoarse, the syllable mangled all to Hell by the marbles that have suddenly taken residence in Peter’s mouth. He tries to wave instead and finds out that both his hands are still cuffed behind his back. The Kree frowns behind his breathing mask, clearly perplexed, and Peter’s heart sinks as the other male turns away to wave someone else over.

Oh right; the events of his last few days come back to him and Peter internally sighs, flexing his bound hands and feeling the hard bite of his cuffs. Kree ship, Kree guards, Kree justice and sentencing for something Peter knows nothing about. Yondu was gonna be so pissed once he got to Morag but at least Peter wouldn’t have to deal with the Centurian’s temper. Honestly, what did the old fart think was gonna happen if he left such a large bounty sitting around where confined-to-ship Peter could find it? For a moment, the Terran wistfully fantasizes a grand escape plan, something clever and epic where he knocks out his captors, takes over the ship right under its captain’s nose and sails off to Nova space where he’ll meet up with the Ravager fleet and fuck off to some warm little island to recuperate from this latest edition to the ongoing legend of Star Lord.

It lasts all of three seconds, long enough for an unfamiliar pink Kree female to appear at Peter's side. Wearing her own breathing mask over her mouth and nose, she’s dressed in the universal equivalent of medical scrubs that have to be the most unflattering shade of taupe he has ever seen and make her skin seem red rather than closer to Peter’s natural hue. Her black hair is done up in a pony tail and it makes her angular features more prominent, almost sharp, which is a shame because she’s pretty in a lethal kinda way. If she wasn't Kree and it was any other day, the Terran would happily pick her up in a bar for some fun. But, as her brown eyes sweep over him, mouth turning down in a frown severe enough to match her fellow Kree’s, there’s something about her that screams young to Peter's internal people reader, as if she's unfinished in some way despite the fact she’s seven feet tall and clearly an adult.

Peter clears his throat and greets her as well. “He’lo.”

Goddamn marbles. They’re gonna make everyone think he’s touched in the head.

The pair of Kree share a complicated look between them and then they’re moving, coordinated halves of a whole, both kneeling on the floor opposite each other beside the Terran. The male sets his hammer on the ground about a foot away and then shifts to reach Peter's hands while the female sets a case on the floor beside her and pops it open with a loud snapping sound that seems to echo in the enclosed space. Peter’s arms sag as the cuffs come off and he has to fight to hold still, to breathe through the pain as his dislocated shoulder flares in agony and feeling returns to his numb hands again. More hurts make themselves known, as if waking one has woken them all, and in short order Peter is holding as still as he possibly can, teeth grinding together to keep himself from screaming even if he can’t fully keep himself silent. The funny thing about trying to hold still when injured, however, is that it somehow makes the pain worse and Peter finds himself making little half aborted jerks as new wounds add to the cacophony inside his head, drowning out conscious thought until his heartbeat is thundering in his ears and he can feel his eyes starting to roll upward behind his eyelids. Before Peter can officially pass out however, the agony stops as a wave of blessed numbness rolls over him, smothering the fire of his pain and startling him enough to focus on his surroundings again.

He blinks up at the Kree pair as they roll him onto his back, Peter little more than a sack of potatoes between them and twice as useless since he only has one working eye. He can only watch as the pink Kree snaps a medical bracelet, a Med-snap, around his wrist, the thin band cinching tight to his skin, its little light blinking rapidly as the mechanism runs through diagnostic routines. Peter isn't a fan of the gadget because it can be used as a tracking device but he’s familiar with them since Doc had used them regularly while the Terran had been young. Coming into contact with so many species had ultimately made sure that Peter probably had the best immune system possible but growing up on the pirate ship had been awful for a bored, bedridden child constantly sick with something or other. Still though, the device would make sure he didn’t die accidentally while aboard the Kree vessel.

The whole intentional thing, however, was still on the table.

The Med-snap chimes, done, and the pink Kree turns away as something out of Peter’s view beeps.

“Terran.” The pink Kree says and he can hear the note of excitement in her voice, like she’s discovered something new and interesting. Not quite the reaction Peter’s used to but he’ll happily make her day if she can put him back together again and not, ya know, kill him for kicks or use him as a Guinea pig. He'd had quite enough of that when he was twelve, thank you very much. She turns back to Peter, her smile just a quick flash of teeth before she smothers it but Peter can see how thrilled she is because her eyes give it away. “He’s Terran! I never thought I’d see one! My name is Doh-Veh and this is your Protector Cy-Mon! Welcome aboard the _Dark Aster_!”

Dove and Simon; sure, why not?

The Terran blinks to show he’s listening because moving is impossible with whatever is in his system and Dove smiles brightly before turning back to the case beside her. In direct counterpoint to her enthusiasm, Simon the blue Kree male, just seems to radiate disapproval and irritation. ‘Protector’ was an interesting way of describing a cell guard but Peter could understand being less than thrilled with the assignment and doesn’t take it personally since he’s had to do his own share of garbage assignments for Yondu in the past.

Dove turns back, a hypo-injector in one hand and what appears to be a data pad in the other. The words crawling across the display are in Kree but Peter’s been knocking about the galaxy for a few years now and can understand some of the blocky glyphs. The Med-Snap starts shrieking as his heart drops into his shoes and he actively begins trying to move away from her, the surge of adrenaline helping to beat back the painkiller enough that he manages an inch despite the agony pulsing through him. Simon intervenes, the great big bastard settling both hands on Peter’s shoulders to pin him to the floor and the Terran chokes on a scream as his dislocated shoulder is pressed.

Tiny though it is, this time he feels the bite of the hypo on the skin of his neck and Peter’s vision starts to get unfocused around the edges, gauzy and white as the sedative immediately takes hold, instantly washing his fear away and quieting the voice shrieking in his head of danger.

“Go to sleep,” Dove’s voice seems to come from far away, following him down as darkness suck him under. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Her words would have been much more convincing if she hadn’t been holding a Goddamn manual on Terran biology.


	3. Chapter 3

The concept of time gets a bit odd in space. Unless you’re on a planet with regular day and night cycles, a person’s sense of time gets severely skewed fairly easily. Floating in an endless sea of stars, time almost becomes irrelevant entirely because, other than the odd clock to tell you when you are, there’s no internal mechanism to relate it to. Time becomes suggestive, relative, and, if you are alone, nearly meaningless. On the _Milano_ , Peter had had to set up numerous external reminder alarms just to keep track of things because he simply couldn’t rely on his own internal one. He’d be aware that time was passing but in a nebulous way; facts on the edge of his consciousness that didn’t seem to have a direct impact on him personally.

Sorta like now; he’s aware of activity happening around him and that time is passing but all of that has no relation to his current state. He can hear other people and can feel himself moving, can sense that wherever he’s located currently is too cold for his liking and that parts of him hurt as his limbs are pulled and popped and shoved back into place by unseen hands but it’s all distant, something in his peripheral orbit but not directly affecting him. Sometimes the activity seems to happen all at the same time while at other moments not at all, some of it repeating, like bursts of a song played randomly and at varying volumes. Through it all, Peter is content to just be since he’s finally able to catch up on all the sleep he’s missed between doing runs for Yondu and dodging bounty hunters.

Ugh, that had been a special kind of pain in the ass. Peter knows exactly what he is, knows that being a pirate means he comes with a certain reputation, and accepts it wholeheartedly because it’s fucking awesome. Yes, being a criminal is bad, as is being a thief, but he’s very good at it, takes pride in it, and if he’s going to do it anyway then he might as well try to be the best at it. But for the past few months- or what Peter considers months since, again, time is fluid in space- he’d been hounded to an alarming degree by bounty hunters of all flavors. If Yondu had hair, he would’ve been tearing it out as he tried to track down who was putting the bounty on the Terran's head.

_“What'd you do, boy? Who’d you piss off so badly?”_

An untold amount of hours later, Yondu’s digging eventually revealed that the origin was coming from Kree controlled space and Peter had never seen the Centurion so angry and frustrated. Considering that the Kree Empire spanned across thousands of worlds, the lead wasn’t much and the whole Ravager fleet knew it. Peter resented being forced to stay close to home but he understood why since the alternative was to be grabbed and delivered to face an unknown fate at the hands of some mysterious Kree with an axe to grind. The Terran had a knack for trouble but dying wasn’t something he was interested in; dying via torture was even lower on the list.

Funny how things worked out, all in all.

Peter thinks he dreams but they’re insubstantial and fleeting, flashes of memory disconnected from context and shuffled randomly. In one he’s eight years old trotting after Yondu down one of the halls of the _Eclector_ but in another he’s a teenager running full speed through a bazaar on a planet he can’t name, hurtling through and jumping over stalls of everything under the sun while chased by the local constabulary. He space walks for the first time, Yondu’s hand firmly fisted in the material of his suit ‘so he can’t wander off,’ and the wonder of that moment, of gazing out at the stars and realizing most hold life fills Peter all over again. He sings off key with his mother as they make flower crowns in the backyard and strips an engine with a blue Kree engineer named Ker-Voh. Kraglin teaches him how to throw knives and the Nav teaches Peter how to pilot the ship as he knits a scarf out of the silk xe produces. He bakes with Gramma and learns to mend clothes with Granddad. Throat aching until he’s hoarse, Peter keeps talking, singing, alternating between his mother’s songs and telling fairytales of his childhood to a grey-skinned girl with fierce red tattoos and a delicate looking blue skinned boy with the prettiest violet eyes Peter’s ever seen. Doc drags him into the medbay for a check up, a young Peter secured under one muscular sunshine yellow arm while the remaining three gesticulate as Doc lectures him about yet another injury and being careful.

It’s when he starts to dream of his child self’s last day on Earth that things take a dark turn and the peace that had suffused his idle state gives way to an omnipresent heat, to pain. It’s like he’s standing by an oven or furnace, the heat washing over him from all sides and stealing his air, but he can’t find the source to put it out. Peter feels himself struggling for breath, painful gasps wracking his frame as his dying mother reaches for him, her fingers so thin and fragile they look more like claws. But they’re open in a hug, offering safety and comfort, and she’s smiling at him, gentle and sweet and sad and Peter’s heart lurches painfully in his chest before falling out the bottom of his feet. The instinctive urge to comfort surges up but so does a sense of foreboding, of a warning so deeply ingrained it needs no explanation; if Peter goes to her, there is no coming back and as much as he loves his mom, he isn’t ready to die just yet.

Heart aching as she waves invitingly, he waves a negative and steps back away from her. Immediately the heat engulfs him and the pain is back, crippling and all consuming. It’s nearly panic-inducing and Peter struggles to breathe through the flames suffocating him and maintain some sort of rational thought because he can’t free himself if he can’t focus. He has to focus, damn it, but he can't. He can't because he's trapped, trapped and on fire, and there’s no air, there’s no air! His chest heaves with the need to breathe but his insides have melted to slag and are burning their way out out his middle, and Peter can’t think, he can’t think! He can’t-

Someone takes his hand.

The sensation is startling enough that it gets his attention through whatever is affecting him. The image of his mother blurs then freezes as a large thumb strokes over his smaller fingers, the repetitive action comforting despite the way calluses on the digit catch on Peter’s sensitive burning skin. Beyond his own labored breathing, the Terran can hear someone humming what could be the melody of ‘Hooked On a Feeling’ if a person were being generous since half of it is missing, lost in low tones Peter can feel even if he can’t quite hear. It’s a unique vocal range and one he’s only heard before while resting his head against an impossibly warm shoulder the color of a blue alpine larkspur. Beyond the Ravagers and Peter, there’s only two, maybe three people who should know that song outside of Earth but only one candidate able to hum in a sub-vocal range.

“Delphi,” Peter gasps, slurring as he jerks awake. As subtle as a baseball bat to the face, reality at once assaults him with its cruelty and he immediately regrets forcing his way to consciousness because everything hurts, everything aches, and he can barely string two thoughts together. He feels like he dragged himself up from the depths of the ocean after being crushed like a tin can by the pressure, his body heavy and weak, so tired and uncooperative that he can barely get his eyes to focus on the blurry form next to him.

Eyes the color of New England aster petals finally come into focus and Peter is caught between two opposing emotions. On one hand, he’s relived and the sweetness of finally, finally finding this particular idiot after nearly two decades of looking is so potent that it practically makes his blood sing with the sensation of relief, of joy. _I found you,_ it screams. _I found you! I found you after looking so damn long **where were you?!**_

But right behind it is nearly the polar opposite and Peter can feel his fingers twitch with the need to grab the idiot and shake the fucking life out of him. All of the Terran’s frustration, worry and subsequent grief could have been avoided if the Kree before him had just given Peter his name. You would think it would’ve been easy to find out what had happened to a certain blue Kree youth with white hair and violet eyes, a rare combination Peter eventually found out, but nope; no public information available anywhere outside of the Kree empire and no one inside who would talk. Peter had begun to fear the youth had died, that Yondu had lied about ensuring he was found by a Kree patrol.

_“What’s’a matter wit’ you, boy?”_ Yondu had asked when Peter had eventually confronted the Centaurian. _“Actin’ like some lovesick fool! That blue Kree kid’s an aristocrat! Probably home now laughin’ ‘bout his little adventure while gettin’ ready fer school. Think he wonders what happened to you, think he cares you broke your momma’s ‘Walkman’ to protect him? Make no mistake, boy, that kid doesn’t give a shit ‘bout you.”_

_“He’s my friend!”_ Peter had claimed, defiant and outraged, cheeks burning from anger. Shame and sadness had been there too, as well as the crushing disappointment that Yondu may be right, that the Terran had been used as a means to an end and summarily abandoned. Someone left behind and easily forgotten now that the danger had passed _._

_“Ravagers don’t got friends, boy, and you’re a Ravager! If you two ever meet again, that kid’ll most likely be an officer a’somesort. He’ll shoot you dead and n’ver think twice.”_

Peter however had had faith, and had stubbornly believed for years in the friendship built between he and the Kree boy. Yondu could scoff all he wanted because he simply didn’t understand- Peter and his Kree had bonded during their time together. They had taken over their captor’s ship together, had huddled together on the down cycle to keep warm, had both had to learn to communicate with one another when Delphi fried his translator while helping Peter connect the communications array to a rigged battery. They were friends, damn it! It didn’t matter that Delphi never told Peter his true name; they’d promised to find one another again so that was that. Eventually it would happen and Yondu would have to eat crow and Peter could find out if Delphi’s mom had liked the metal aster Peter had made.

But time had passed, with one month becoming four, one year turning into three, one decade transformed into almost two and Peter had nothing to show for his faith but his broken Wallman and the scars on his fingers from shaping the scrap metal into petals. Yondu had never again mentioned the Kree kid or Peter’s second abduction but Peter remembered and the resulting sense of betrayal still sat heavy in his chest as an adult, a noisy ghost that haunted him on very bad nights and dragged him so deeply into the mire of his many regrets that relief could only be found by taking refuge in the bottom of a bottle.

After all, what kind of fucking moron really clings so desperately to a silly promise made by a twelve year old to some no name random kid of a species that looks down on anyone not from their empire?

A lonely, idiot Terran kid named Peter, that’s who.

The emotional scales in Peter’s mind teeter at the memory, struggling to balance under its hefty weight before dipping sharply as anger wins out, roaring forward like an enraged animal.

“ _ **Delphi**_..!” And this time it’s a full on growl because tears shed in anguish are still bitter and choking even years after the inciting event. Beaten and battered as he is, Peter’s finally found the energy to move, levering himself upward toward the Kree, and he can feel his fingers tightening hard enough to bruise around the hand holding his. Something in the background is beeping shrilly and someone else is swearing, but nothing is going to stop Peter now that he’s found his wayward idiot.

Because it **is** Peter’s idiot, his _Delphinium carolinianum_ , fully grown into the wide shoulders and long limbs the other’s younger gangly form had hinted at when they met. All that lovely white hair is gone, shaved to nothing for fashion or function, and the Terran mourns it because the Kree had seemed to like it when Peter braided his hair. The delicate facial features of high cheekbones, narrow chin, and large eyes that had made him look perpetually surprised and feminine had melted into more typical masculine traits and the scar that the Kree youth had gained while captured with Peter is still there, though the angry line by his lip has faded to almost nothing with age. The eyes that had been so startling when they first met are still extraordinary even now while they are currently wide with alarm.

Nope, nothing is going to stop the Terran from shaking answers out of his moron! Nothing- except Peter's own ailing health and the blaring of his internal Very Bad Idea (TM) alarm.

Pain spikes through him, has been spiking through him from various directions in muted pulses that he’d been able to ignore until now. Attempting to sit upright, however, seems to have overcome whatever pain medication is in the Terran’s system because it feels as if something in his abdomen has popped like a balloon and his ribs are grinding against each other in a way they very much shouldn’t.

He feels awful, sleep pulling at him like an undeniable force, but Peter wants answers to all the questions crowding his mind. Anger chased back for now, he glares at the ceiling and opens and closes his mouth a few times but everything feels swollen; his tongue thick, his cheeks sore. Even his teeth hurt and that is a bizarrely new experience for the Terran given how many blows to the face he’s taken in his lifetime. He’s also never been so acutely aware of his heartbeat before but it’s currently so loud in his ears that he can barely think, wrecking his concentration and scattering all the questions Peter’s would ask if he could just get his act together.

“Peter?” Delphi’s duel-toned voice seems to come from a great height, which is stupid because the bastard is right there and Peter is less than a foot away and why is is so fucking hard to keep his eyes open?

And why is Delphi’s skin so cold? Blue Kree, especially Hala-bred ones, always run hot, like they carry a piece of their duels suns under their skin. The way their skin soaks up the radiation of their planet makes them veritable hot-water bottles and thus less temperature sensitive to the extreme cold space-faring species have to deal with. Maybe he’s sick? That’s okay, well not _okay_ okay but with how hot he feels Peter can keep the other warm without issue. The muzzy idea that Peter should probably move over then drifts through his mind and the Terran makes the effort to roll over but his limbs aren’t listening to him so it’s more an uncoordinated flop than anything else which is upsetting because he doesn’t want Delphi to be cold or sick or...Or...

Peter's thoughts scatter like dandelion fluff in a strong breeze.

_The sensation of being picked up wakes Peter and he immediately flails a bit as his groggy mind tries to make sense of things. It can’t though because he’s been up for three days trying to get the ship back into working order so they don’t all die terrible deaths._

_“Del? Wah’ s’it? Wah’s ‘rong?” He slurs, rubbing his face with the nearest piece of blanket in an attempt to kick start his brain. The Kree, despite being slightly shorter, holds him securely and doesn’t even seem to strain under the Terran’s weight, merely watches Peter struggle with the same perplexed expression he’s been wearing for the last few days._

_“Strange creature, sleeping on the floor when you are so cold.” The Kree says and begins moving. He’s so warm the heat radiates through the blankets Peter’s wrapped around himself and the Terran feels any progress he’s made waking up start to slip away._

_Peter mumbles something about being Terran and always feeling cold as his eyes slide shut, his head nodding forward until it rests on Delphi’s shoulder. The Kree doesn’t have a lot of padding on his body but Peter doesn’t mind his new bony pillow, not when it comes with a walking, talking furnace that melts the tightness from his limbs._

_“I have you.” Del rumbles quietly and Peter hums in acknowledgement, smiling as the arms holding him tighten briefly in a hard squeeze._

_It's not a hug- Kree don’t hug according to Delphi- but it's close enough for Peter._

“Peter!”

That’s Delphi’s command voice, which Peter has only heard once before and had answered by flinging a wrench at the Kree’s feet in a fit of pique before storming off to cool down. It reminds the Terran very much of Yondu’s captain voice and makes Peter reflexively scowl.

“Peter!” There’s a sharp tug to his ear this time as well, followed by a shake that forces him awake and he gasps, mewling in pain because everything hurts, damn it!

The room appears in flashes because Peter’s eyes are just not having it and have subsequently decided to mutiny. Everything is too bright and has a near surreal quality to it but the Terran makes out an IV in his arm, a room he isn't familiar with, and a pink Kree he thinks he does know but can't place poking at his abdomen. She keeps looking at something behind Peter, her brows furrowed, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth as she talks to someone not him and Peter realizes that there’s an argument taking place above him.

And then he realizes that he’s being gently but firmly held down.

Something is cupping his face trying to keep his head still and, pain or not, disoriented by his abrupt return to consciousness or not, he instinctively starts batting at the hands touching him, trying to sit up and get away because there are just too many people in his personal space. His mindless flailing startles the pink Kree girl, who slips and disappears to the floor beside his bed with a yip, but the hands by his head don’t let go quite so easily. Someone is talking to him but his ears are full of the thunderous pounding of his own heart and he cannot understand what they are saying, just that he has to get out of there. He has to go but his limbs won’t work right even as he struggles upright. And it’s just so hot in this place, so hot that Peter feels as if he's melting and he can't understand why they don't seem to be as effected as he is by the heat. 

Reguardless, he wants out, he wants everyone to leave him alone and he thinks he says as much but he isn't sure as pain radiates along his jaw. Blue hands reach for him and he swats at them, hard, ignoring the grinding agony from his right wrist. While he's occupied dodging his grabby opponent, someone snags his left arm and Peter hates the frightened sound that crawls out of his throat when the sharp familiar bite of a hypoinjector pierces the skin of his forearm. The pink Kree, looking frazzled but very determined, is on the other end of the injector and Peter barely has time to register this fact before hands are guiding him downward to lay on the mattress again. They take care to position him so that he's comfortable, straightening out his arms and making sure his head is supported by his pillow.

Feeling like he’s floating away, Peter blinks slowly, and reality hiccups and jumps like a corrupted vid file before finally settling.

“I have you.” Delphi murmurs lowly, his face upside down above Peter. The Kree is carefully resting his hands on either side of Peter’s face. “Peace, I have you.”

The Kree keeps talking, looking shy and hesitant, and Peter feels bad because he can’t follow any of what's being said. His brain feels overloaded with information and exhausted from trying to process way too many things at once. He watches Delphi’s mouth move through half lidded eyes, enjoys the micro expressions of happiness and wonder that appear and disappear, and mourns the memory of a teenage Delphi who had been almost as expressive as Peter.

The Kree stops talking not long after and looks at him expectantly.

“Okay.” Peter has no idea what he’s agreeing to but, in the face of Delphi’s answering quiet joy, the Terran cannot help but smile back at the Kree.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Peter drifts for a while, heat and pain chasing him through the darkness behind his eyes until it becomes too much and he surfaces from that bottomless ocean to an unfamiliar room. The air smells sharply of antiseptic and cleaner and he can already feel the headache building behind his eyes. Sitting in a semi-reclined position, his left eye is swollen shut but his right eye responds as he blinks in the much too low lighting, spotting the Med-snap around his left wrist along with tubes in the same arm that lead to more medical equipment than he thinks truly necessary considering its just a fever and a few broken bones.

Whatever; Peter’s limbs are stiff as all hell from laying here and being in any kind of hospital setting, even nice ones, has a tendency to creep him out. Wanting to be anywhere but here, he tries to move and that’s when he discovers several things simultaneously: there’re casts on both his left leg and right wrist, his jaw is wired shut, and moving anything sends waves of fiery agony through his battered frame. Breathing hurts, his ribs grinding together unpleasantly with each breath- everything hurts, even his fucking hips!

Where is he? What’s going on? Despite the fact that it makes him momentarily blind from pain, Peter thumps his head against his pillows in frustration. He hates this, this helplessness- unable to move, unable to cry out- because it only serves to wake old ghosts, memories of his second abduction seeping out from the mental lock box he keeps them all in. He takes slow measured breaths, focusing on the burn as his chest moves, trying desperately stave off the paranoia induced panic.

_Focus on the details._

He can’t hear any thing beyond the hum of the machinery nearby and the quiet whir of the room’s air circulation system. He’s in a bedroom, in a nice, plush bed supported by a mound of pillows and covered by a thick comforter and other bedding tucked up to his waist. He’s not bound in any way and his damaged limbs are carefully arranged to be supported by more pillows- there have to be enough pillows around him to make a damn fort and that thought does help Peter calm enough that he can feel his skin stop crawling with anxiety. Seriously; he’s so protected he might as well be wrapped in cotton which is just insulting to a tough as nails, fearsome space pirate. Where did all these pillows come from anyway? Is he in a hotel? A pillow factory? His inner ear tells him he’s moving through some conveyance so he’s not planet side- a ship, then. But a ship would have to be huge to have so many pillows just laying around for something so frivolous, like a private luxury liner, or a deep space cruiser, or a battleship or a....

Peter’s thoughts grind to a halt. _Or something larger, like a Kree Subjugation Class 4 Imperial Cruiser, maybe?_

And just like that, any progress he’s made putting a lid on his whispering fears of being captured for terrible purposes go right out the window. Memories surface of being shot down, of being dragged through a hallway cuffed and chained and half dead by a bunch of non-Kree idiots then being found by two Kree, one of which was reading from a book about how to treat him. And Delphi- he’d hallucinated obviously because there is no way Pete’s luck is so fucking great (or terrible, jury’s still out on that one) that after searching for years he just happens to stumble across his long lost maybe friend aboard a random Kree vessel. Had to be a hallucination or a fever dream his cooking brain made up- couldn’t be anything else. Couldn’t be. Peter feels his lower lip tremble and tears threaten at the rationalization and the grief over that fact is almost outweighed by the internal outrage and disgust at the very real prospect that the Terran is about to start wailing over what honestly is nothing he should be attaching such hefty emotional weight to. Delphi was either dead or planets away- light years away- doing whatever made him happy, maybe, but with no thoughts of Peter whatsoever if the Kree even remembered the Terran. Fifteen years was a considerable stretch to do anything, afterall.

Time had proven Yondu right and Peter... Well, Peter had grown up to become a notorious pirate so, in the end, everybody had won.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He chants at himself, agony coursing through him as he struggles to free himself from the comforter and his pillow prison so that he can sit up properly. Peter feels his eyes tear and he bites his lip as sweat drips down his face, finding cuts and scrapes he’d been ignorant of until now, making them sting and ache fiercely. The Terran fights with everything he has to sit up, to get up, but no matter how hard he tries none of his limbs are listening to him so he merely flails a bit haphazardly as he attempts to get some sort of leverage. When he only succeeds in adding to his misery, Peter flops back in defeat, feeling tremors of exhaustion quake through him, tears of frustrated defeat trailing down his cheeks. 

He’s trapped under questionable circumstances to meet an uncertain fate. Peter tries to focus on his breathing and take measured breaths but he can’t seem to get enough air anymore. He swallows and grits his teeth and concentrates on the resulting pain that flairs up from his jaw, grinding his teeth to increase the pain so he has something physical to deal with. Anything to help him stay calm and keep his attention away from his suddenly too small, too dark room with its too big bed trying to secretly suffocate him with its comfiness. Closing his eye, Peter begins flexing the fingers of his left hand as his heart rate begins to skyrocket, popping his knuckles in a nervous gesture, sparks of pain making the muscles of his jaw jump as the bones rub against one another. He starts humming, low and quiet, afraid to attract attention but needing to do something before he goes crazy. 

_“Such a rare specimen!”_

Peter hums louder a little desperately.

_”A Terran! So many cross-breeding possibilities! So exciting!.”_

There’s no physical way Peter can hum loud enough to drown out the memory so he gives up and shakes from the effort of trying to contain his terror. It’s not real, not anymore. They’re dead, dead by Peter’s hand no less, and cannot hurt him ever again. He survived, they didn’t, end of story so stop freaking out, stop it, stop it, **stop it!**

_”You were to deliver him undamaged! What if his injury influences our experiments?”_

Peter makes a wounded noise and seriously considers hurting himself severely so that he can pass out. There’s some sort of nightstand near the bed that he’s sure he can fling himself into though a another bout of panicked flailing proves him wrong. He keeps trying to open his mouth for more air but he can’t because his teeth are wired together which ratchets up his fear to gibbering idiot levels.

_Hide, gotta hide, hide, hide!_ He pushes back into his pillows and begins tugging at the comforter with the intention of hiding under the covers because logic has gone out the window along with whatever functioning brain cells he had before he woke up. He is aware that his fear is all in his head, that it makes no sense and that he is, in fact, going to really hurt himself, that he is already hurting himself unnecessarily. That his behavior is about as far from rational as he can get as he tugs weakly at his covers, face a teary mess that any other time he’d be mortified over, but he can’t do anything to reign any of it in. He can’t breathe, can’t think as memories continue to whisper in his ear, can’t get beyond the conviction that something is lurking in the dark and it will harm him if it can find him. 

_“Yondu is going to kill you when he finds out what you’ve done!”_ His young voice had been surprisingly even and firm as he‘d sat slumped in his cage with blood dripping down his temple from the hit that had knocked him out. 

Accepting his payment, Tazerface had laughed before spitting on the floor and leering down at Peter’s prone form _. “_ _Who_ _do you think sold you kid? Don’t get angry at the middleman.”_

Peter’s chest heaves from anxiety and the need for more oxygen. Grey spots eat at his vision and part of him is alert enough to praise Jesus he’ll be free of his own stupidity soon because he’ll take unconsciousness over his current state any day. The indignity of losing control is the worst part but at least he’s alone currently so he doesn’t have to try and explain what his problem is. He couldn’t even if his mouth wasn’t wired shut; how do you explain to someone that you are having a moment of weakness, caught by one of the monsters in your head, and not sound completely deranged?

Teetering on the edge of consciousness, Peter sags further and more solidly against the bedding as tight muscles unclench. Spent and exhausted, his body is finally shutting down to give itself a reprieve from his own special brand of idiocy so he does’t exactly know when his visitor actually comes in, just that there is suddenly a weight on the bed as someone sits down and that there’s a large hand cradling the least damaged side of his face.

Someone is saying his name, over and over in gentle duel tones, the fingers of the hand cupping his face alternating between petting hesitantly through Peter’s sweat soaked hair or wiping at his tears. Something wet touches his temple and the Terran tries to jerk back away from it instinctively but is held in place by a strong grip. The cold thing touches him again, wet and spongy and making Peter’s skin crawl as his mind dredges up several unpleasant scenarios about what is happening right now. Making protesting noises, Peter flails with his left hand until he hits something warm and solid and he grips it, getting a fistful of fabric and pulling on it tightly as his eye flutters back open. A face swims into view as the other leans forward, pressing their forehead against his which has to be truly disgusting since the Terran’s just drenched in sweat. Peter blinks up into startling violet eyes, familiar eyes, set in a blue face that still holds traces of the child Peter had met so long ago, with a dusting of white hair on his head. 

Delphi.

An adult Delphi, who leans back out of Peter’s immediate space to wet and wring out the small washcloth the Kree is holding in a bowl on a small table near the bed hidden by the bulky body of some sort of monitor. Finished, the Kree returns and begins dapping carefully at Peter’s face, paying attention to soothing the tender skin around the Terran’s eyes. Peter can only stare, now acutely aware of the fever burning through him and unsure if he’s hallucinating again. Delphi looks so serious, so focused on what he’s doing as he gently and diligently wipes Peter’s face clean, that it has to be an illusion, has to be a fantasy, because it’s not fair. It’s not fair to be seeing him now of all times, not when Peter’s such a goddamn mess. 

“You are safe.” Delphi says firmly, leaning back out of Peter’s immediate vicinity to put the washcloth away. Sitting to Peter’s left, the Kree shifts his seat on the bed slightly until his thigh is brushing up against the Terran’s in a solid line and Peter concentrates on the warmth radiating from just that casual contact. “You are aboard my ship and your injuries are being treated. You are safe.”

Peter very much wants to believe the other and that just makes him more suspicious of what he's seeing. He blinks at the Kree and stays silent, eyelid fluttering shut as darkness eats the world. Delphi makes a noise, a small hum that Peter thinks may be one of approval as the Terran starts to drift off, helped along by the sensation of long fingers carding through his hair and a warm calloused digit stroking over his cheek. Once, twice; between the exhaustion, the pain, the heat and whatever drugs are in his system, Peter’s out before the Kree’s finger can make a third pass. 

* * *

When next he wakes, it’s like being jerked abruptly back to consciousness and, as such, his heart is hammering in his chest and his body is gasping for breath in full fight or flight mode. He’s trying to sit up and get his defensive guard up before his brain even begins fully processing the threat, nearly choking as he tries to draw in air through his mouth and instead gets a pool of saliva. Hands- large and warm and blue- help him roll to his left side and Peter coughs so hard through his teeth it’s like his body is trying to evict his lungs. Since his jaw is still wired shut, he can’t open his mouth and between fighting the need to do so and the pain that rears up when he tries, the Terran feels like he’s strained all the muscles in his head and throat. When he finishes, Peter feels like he’s been lit on fire inside and out, as well as run over by the _Milano_ and his left leg aches to the point that he briefly entertains the idea of having it removed _._ Head hanging over the side of the bed and feeling like his brain’s been scrambled, Peter stares down at the floor and can’t help the long, drawn out sound of misery that escapes him. 

Though the Med-snap remains, most of the tubes have vanished from his arm, and Peter spares a moment to be thankful for small mercies. Most of the heavy duty machinery that had been present the last time he woke is also gone which should mean that he’s on the mend, provided he didn’t just break something else- a definite possibility from the feel of it- but the idea of another injury isn’t as pressing as something else he is acutely aware of. There are, admittedly, many things that he should currently be concerned about but the one that occupies most of his limited brain power is the thing around his teeth and how it needs to go even if he looses a molar or two in the process. Peter works his right arm between his chest and the bed and props himself up so that he can use his left hand to start prodding at the skin around his jaw line in an attempt to find a cache or switch or something to undo the mechanism forcing his teeth together. When that fails, he slides a finger into his mouth and prods at his gum line. He’s been using the term ‘wired’ but that isn’t an accurate description, he finds, as he continues to investigate; the device is more like a a very thin elongated clamp that’s been fitted to his teeth top and bottom and hooks together in the rear of his mouth. 

“What are you doing?” 

Peter still doesn’t know if he’s hallucinating the Delphi standing beside his bed so he ignores him- it- as he pulls his hand from his mouth. Carefully the Terran shifts his jaw, slowly moving it from side to side to see if that does the trick then up and forward, using his tongue to gauge how close he is to succeeding. He almost has it, almost, but the more he strains, the further he seems to get from actually opening it.

“Peter.” Delphi says and there’s a tone in his voice that sounds very put out. “You are in danger of loosing three teeth. Please stop.”

He can’t jerk to the side fast enough to avoid the pair of large hands that cup his jaw, nor can Peter help the way his tight muscles relax immediately in reaction to the warmth radiating from the other’s skin. Peter feels his eyes- oh, hey, the swelling finally went down enough for him to see out of two. Yay!- close, fluttering shut as his body starts to slump face down back into his nest of pillows and blankets. Hallucination or not, Delphi just radiates heat like a hot water bottle and part of Peter wants the other to come lay down so that the Terran can drape himself over the Kree like a cat in a warm patch of sunlight carpet. 

“You should drink something.” Delphi says decisively, shifting Peter’s jaw slightly forward then back until Peter feels the mechanism in his mouth strain. The Kree ceases his actions and instead simply holds Peter’s jaw, stroking his thumbs over the soft area just under the place where his jawline angles upward to connect to the Terran’s skull. It feels good and Peter makes a realization about the thing keeping his jaws locked that he has to file away quickly for use later since his brain is mush. “And you should eat something. Is there something specific you want?”

”An orange.” The Terran slurs out, barely aware of what he’s saying or if he’s even speaking at all. Sleep already has its hooks in him and he face plants into the mattress when his right arm gives out to awkwardly trap both arms under his chest. From above him, there is a small put upon sigh and then Del is rolling him onto his back and easily rearranging the limp Terran so that he doesn’t suffocate or cause more damage. Peter makes a small inquiring noise as warm fingers press gently against the pulse points in his neck and wrists, the digits resting a little too long to be wholly appropriate, as if the Kree is trying to reassure himself that Peter is really there, alive and... well, alive, if not in the best of condition.

Assuming that Delphi is actually there- the whole imaginary friend thing is still on the table no matter how real the hands that tuck him in feel or how warm the forehead that presses against his own is. The human mind can be flexible in all the best and worst ways and Peter knows that if he’s hurt enough or intoxicated enough, his own mind isn’t above convincing him that something is or isn’t real to make him feel better.

Which is just incredibly sad, really, and only sets him up for disappointment later so it isn’t exactly a surprise that, when he’s sucked back into the sea of inky darkness deep sleep brings, his dreams turn melancholy and bitter. They’re not nightmares, not exactly, but they are far from pleasant, making his sleep fitful and restless. He jerks awake multiple times during the night until there’s a sharp pinch at his arm that makes his skin burn even as his muscles relax. 

His body quiets but his mind does not.

* * *

He squeezes out of the duct and carefully lets himself drop to the grated floor, grinding his teeth against the urg to yelp when his warm toes touch freezing metal. Crouching to stay hidden, Peter peers around the pile of boxes he's hiding beside and tries to figure out what he can salvage from this new room. He has to be careful, though, because the assholes who own the ship have caught on to his little sabotaging efforts and if he's caught now the game will end with him either shackled back in his cell or at the tender mercy of a sadist.

Nothing moves in the low light of the room and Peter can't hear the subtle electronic whine of a security camera anywhere. That doesn't mean there isn't one, just that it's not close enough for him to detect so after spending a few more minutes waiting, the Terran ventures forth into the mystery room hoping to find something worth his efforts. This isn't the destination he wanted but he'll make the most of his accidental detour as he continues to try and locate the environmental control room.

He's already wrecked enough of the communications center that reinforcements aren't going to be an issue since no one can currently call for help. The ship isn't going anywhere either since he's pulled and hidden a lot of the more critical parts. Now it's time to get rid of his kidnappers but he needs the enviro-controls to do it bloodlessly. He’s already squirrelled away enough rope to restrain the so-called ‘doctors’, their assortment of guards, and found a nice empty storage area to cram them all into but there’s no way he can take them all on directly. He may be a pirate in the making but Peter’s only twelve and two other lives hang in the balance so he’s gotta be super careful and sneaky, sneaky, sneaky.

Dressed in the stupid scratchy hospital smock and matching pants they'd forced him into once he'd been dragged aboard, the Terran shivers in the cold room as he crawls out of his hiding place, staying close to the walls and continuing to use the stacks of miscellaneous stuff here and there for cover. It's freezing, however, so he’s not as quiet as he could be since his teeth are chattering and his limbs are shaking from the cold. Maybe he’s found a freezer or a refrigeration unit? Refrigeration usually meant food so maybe this is where they hoarded all the good food? Peter feels his stomach rumble quietly at the prospect because if he has to eat one more nutrient bar with its cardboard taste and near brick like texture he’s gonna cry in frustration. 

The room only gets colder the further in he goes and his breath plumes before him in cloud as he makes his way around various obstacles. There are stacks of boxes dotting the landscape as well as a long table on the left that looks much like a mechanic’s work bench but there’s also objects hanging from the ceiling by chains that vary in size and bulk, some slim, some not, some covered in plastic-like material while others are left naked. All are covered in frost, fine delicate sheets that make identifying what’s around him difficult without more light or actually getting more up close and personal than Peter wants to be. There’s a smell in the frigid air too, something he can’t consciously identify yet but is making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, because part of him realizes that the scent would be heavy and metallic if not for the cold. Peter rocks to a halt, swallows nervously as the hair all over his body stands up, then begins his retreat as the primitive part of his brain starts screaming to run. 

Peter’s not a coward but fuck it, he’ll explore this room once he’s taken the ship. 

Unwilling to turn his back to the rest of the room, Peter begins backtracking slowly, trying to retrace his route without touching anything. However walking backwards is difficult and, unsurprisingly, the Terran bumps into something that brushes gently against his calf and Peter freezes there like a stupid deer in the headlights, his skin crawling where it’s been touched, and clinging to the blatantly childish impulse to not look at it because if he doesn’t look at it, it can’t harm him. If he doesn’t look, he’ll be fine, he just doesn’t have to look at it or think about how much it feels like a fingers...

_Fuck you, stupid brain!_ Peter mentally screams even as he looks down at what’s touching him.

It’s a hand, an adult one, sticking out from the lower shelf of the workbench/table thing. It’s even still attached to it’s owner’s arm though the rest of the body is missing. But it can’t be lonely because there are other arms stacked with it, all neatly tied together like bundles of wood for a fire. 

The urge to scream is immediate, and he nearly wets himself as he scrambles away from the item then bumps into one of the objects hanging from the ceiling. His momentum sets the thing to swinging, which makes it bump into its neighbor and start a domino effect of all the things hanging above him. Soon Peter’s surrounded by a gently swaying forrest of plastic wrapped meat- because that’s what it is, he learns as he peers closely at the nearest one and nearly screams again. The Terran keeps both his hands over his mouth to keep himself quiet and realizes that, yes, he’s found a refrigeration unit but no, it doesn’t contain food. Peter can feel hysteria building inside him because now, as he tries to not to be touched by anything else, Peter can’t fathom how he didn’t realize that the things hanging from the ceiling are bodies in various states of dismemberment.

Probably because many of them are only partially humanoid, like a sadistic God had had a field day with the leftover parts of creation.

When he was younger, Peter had read about the Fiji mermaid. A big circus showman had sewed together the embalmed bodies of a small monkey and some type of large fish. The guy had traveled the country or sold it to a museum or something but he’d duped the public into believing it was a new creature he’d discovered. Peter had seen a picture of it once, of that twisted monstrosity stuck together for public entertainment, and remembers that he had only felt sad on its behalf and depressed that someone would do something so cruel. He feels echos of those emotions now as he looks in quiet horror at the misshapen bodies around him, some with fur and too many legs, some with bald skin that should have fur, at tails that don’t match the body, at bodies with gills but no heads.

The people aboard this ship would have either made Barnum salivate with greed or run in terror. Toss up as to which.

Carefully dodging around the plastic wrapped awfulness, Peter edges his way back to the dubious safety of the workbench while giving the bundle of arms a wide berth. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe steadily despite the hard press of his hands against his mouth and the near violent urge to be sick all over the floor. He wants to start screaming, just scream and scream until reality becomes something better but Peter knows that’s not going to happen so he has to keep quiet because if he doesn’t he’ll end up as part of this macabre menagerie. Staying focused on his goal doesn’t make him feel any better but it does back him away from the edge of falling apart so Peter opens his eyes and blinks at the line of jars on top of the workbench. 

_That’s not right._

Each jar is filled with fluid and organic components; a pale webbed hand in one, an adult blue Kree’s head in another, what may be a still-born misshapen baby in a third. It’s the head that draws Peter’s attention, however, almost unnaturally so, and he stares at it, puzzled, as he tries to figure out why he can’t look away. His eyes trace over the cheekbones, linger on the scar faintly cutting into the upper lip of the half open mouth, and frowns at the oddly familiar dusting of white hair.

_No. No no nonononono! It’s not real! This didn’t happen!_

The head moves abruptly, twitches into motion like an old animatronic, the mouth moving soundlessly inside its glass prison as the eyes, previously rolled upward in death, look directly at him with milky pale purple irises. The Terran starts screaming, just screams over and over in grief and unadulterated terror. Peter screams until the door to the room bursts open and the guards and the scientists grab him. The world hiccups and then Peter’s blinking awake in his own jar on the workbench, sat next to Delphi’s head. 

* * *

With a sharp inhale, Peter wakes and it takes him a few minutes to realize that he’s laying down, blinking slowly into a too dark room. He’s reasonably sure he’s in his bed, that he’s escaped the dream and is awake, but the horror of the memory clings to him, as does exhaustion. Peter feels like he’s surfacing after being submerged and nearly drowned; his mind and thoughts are too slow and his body feels heavy as he tries to move it, like weights have been attached to all his muscles while he was under. Feeling fragile, he takes a shuddering breath and immediately feels himself crumble under the weight of his dream and all the misery it has conjured in its wake. 

Peter winds up slapping himself in the face twice simultaneously as he brings both hands up to cover his face, trying to be quiet as he cries, the darkness around him not helping at all to chase the dream away. The need to be quiet is still riding him, he has to be quiet or else he’ll be caught, and Peter keeps his hands over his mouth as he weeps, shivering under his covers as he beats down the urge to simply start screaming as he works through his distress.

There are sights that no one is ever meant to see, that cannot be unseen no matter how much one may wish.

Consequently, there are evils that cannot be allowed to stand.

Once he had realized exactly what the room had contained, Peter had fled back into the ductwork and found his way back into Delphi’s cell. Mindful of the security cameras, the Terran had crawled out of the grate under the Kree’s bed and laid there, shivering in terror, listening to the sounds of the living being above him. It taken a while for Delphi to realize that he’d been there so Peter had taken comfort in the sound of the Kree’s soft snoring, in that stupid lazy purring snore Peter’d teased him about but that Delphi vehemently denied making. Eventually, though, Del did realize that Peter was under the bed and had shifted his blanket, using the edge falling over the side of the bed frame to disguise the fact that the Kree had slipped his arm down, hand held out toward the Terran.

Kree do not hug but they will hold hands and Delphi’s fingers had been very warm. 

While hiding under Delphi’s bed, Peter’s idea of taking the ship without bloodshed had disintegrated. The idea of finding the environmental controls was still there and was still be the most expedient way of neutralizing threats but part of Peter wants blood, wants vengeance on behalf of the victims he’d discovered. Secretly, the Terran had feared he’d gone crazy, that something in him had broken at what he’d seen, because this experience creates a monster in him that had followed him like a loyal hound into adulthood. Armed with a collection of knives and other silent weaponry along with his knowledge of blind spots, he had let the monster out, had let it indulge as he cleared the ship of threats. It had been and still was frightening the efficiency with which he had done it, taking advantage of his small size, the ship’s ductwork, his speed, and the fact that they wanted him captured alive. The scientists used their ship to create monsters, so it’s no surprise when Peter becomes one in his own right and soon he’s just down to one last scientist. The grey-skinned, stick thin alien had eluded Peter long enough to take Delphi as a hostage, using the teenage Kree as a shield against Peter and Hovat, the latter very put out that she hadn’t been invited into battle before that point. The battle is messy and ugly and though Peter ends up mourning the loss of his Walkman dearly it is still a small price to pay when weighted against Delphi’s continued existence. 

Later, after he’s cleaned up from his murder adventure and he’s shoved his newfound monster side into a mental lockbox, Peter had found the door to the horror show. Prayer hadn’t been much of a thing in his life before Yondu abducted him and it hadn’t been after so he didn’t know any fancy words or what exactly he’d been supposed to say but he had tried as he stood in the hallway and hoped that that had been enough for whatever god those poor souls may have prayed to. He had put his hands together, bowed his head, and prayed for their peace as best he could with all the sincerity and honesty he’d been capable of.

After, Peter had wiped away his tears, marked the door with a giant ‘X’ and had made both Delphi and Hovat promise to never, ever go in there. 

A much too warm, too big hand settles over his forehead and Peter nearly jumps out of his skin with a muffled shriek. He freezes as fingers tangle in his sweat soaked curls and feels himself stop breathing altogether as someone to his right sits up, the mattress dipping and the bed frame creaking in response. An alarm sounds dimly in the distance but Peter can’t focus on it as Delphi blinks nearly luminous violet eyes down at him. Peter had forgotten that the Kree’s eyes did that in low light; its almost like the eye shine seen in animals but that’s not an accurate description because Kree eyes almost appear to glow as if lit from within in truly low lighting. It’s how Kree can see so damn well in the dark and Peter had forgotten just like he’d forgotten how fucking creepy it could be.

Or thinks he’d forgotten and his mind is simply filling in the details to make his still possibly imaginary friend seem even more real. Either way, it’s not helping his mood or his heart, which feels like it’s dropped out the bottom of his feet currently.

”Lights, thirty percent.” The Kree demands, voice rough from sleep and rumbling deeper. For a moment, Peter wonders how he is supposed to comply since he doesn’t have any lights but then the room begins to brighten as recessed light fixtures in the wall respond. The Terran blinks, eyes watering after being in the dark for so long, but his vision adjusts and he’s finally able to see his immediate surroundings. It’s still at too low a level to make Peter happy if he were wandering around but it is much better than the near dark that he’s been in until now. 

Delphi is blinking rapidly and squints down at Peter in a manner that is very reminiscent of a near-sighted person trying to navigate without their glasses. Under other circumstances, it would be rather entertaining to watch but Peter’s sense of humor seems to have fled today. The Kree is dressed in a charcoal grey, loose fitting top and bottom set that looks both soft and comfortable as the larger male rubs carefully at his eyes. Peter just waits, hands still clamped to his mouth, shivering under Delphi’s hand and gaze when the Kree’s eyes finally sort themselves out.

”Master!” A new voice calls out as the alarm silences and then a new face appears in the room, a pink Kree female dressed in khaki scrubs that seems vaguely familiar though Peter can’t place her. She stops just over the threshold and stands there blinking in the brightness, squinting at Peter before moving her head to look at the bed where Delphi should be but maybe isn't because the Terran's fucking brain decided to make him feel better. **God this whole questioning reality thing just fucking sucks!** Peter wants to just crawl into a hole and cry in frustration because he can’t deal with going crazy as well as being this injured.

The female Kree frowns as she looks between Peter and the bed then back again, and Peter spares a moment to contemplate what he must look like as he presses himself as flat as possible into the bed away from some imaginary foe, the light on his Med-snap blinking away like its trying to compensate for the minimal illumination.

Finally adjusted to the lighting, the Kree woman puts her right hand over her left heart and bends slightly forward in a shallow bow. “Master, for the Consort's welfare, I must insist that you vacate the premises to let him rest.” 

Delphi’s expression turns vaguely mulish and he responds with a flat, direct. “No.”

"Master, I must insist."

The Terran’s brain grinds to an abrupt halt as he realizes that she is not in any way addressing Peter. The pair are talking to one another.

She can see Delphi.

Delphi is real, he’s _here_ , and not a hallucination like Peter feared.

Peter hasn’t lost his mind.

Taking advantage of the pair glaring at each other, Peter pulls his left hand away from his mouth and concentrates, extending it toward the Delphi and poking a spot on the Kree’s torso that, once upon a time, had made Delphi’s teenage self erupt into the most undignified giggle fit when a certain young Terran had brushed it accidentally. It still works and Peter feels himself smile at the startled squawk of sound Delphi emits, at the wounded look the blue Kree gives him even as the corners of the other’s mouth tilts upward in a hesitant smile. The pink Kree turns to stare at Peter, expression shocked, like she’s just seen him fondle Delphi inappropriately instead of his much more innocent action. 

Delphi retaliates by putting a palm on either side of Peter’s face and gently smooshing the Terran’s cheeks together until Peter bats at him to let go. The blue Kree also earns his own shocked glare from the woman and, like Peter, ignores it entirely. 

“You are warming back up. Good.” Del says and genuinely sounds relieved as he takes his hands back and sets them in his lap. “Did you dream about the forbidden room?”

Peter nods carefully and wonders what he must look like to the other because this wasn’t how they were supposed to meet again. The Terran had always thought they would get in touch, have a beer, maybe go see Hovat and her family. Something normal, something basic and simple like what regular friends do. They’d catch up, maybe bitch to each other about their respective careers or whatnot, make plans to go fishing or exploring or something, anything. Peter could teach Delphi how to swim since most Kree can’t and maybe Delphi, the bastard, would **finally** explain why he wouldn’t tell the Terran who he was when they met. But no; of all the hundred and one scenarios Peter had ever envisioned, this is the one that occurs, the one where the Terran is too much of an invalid to do anything let alone say hello. 

“How did you know what he dreamed about?” The Kree woman asks. She’s stopped frowning and her shocked expression has morphed into something closer to the intense interest displayed by visitors to a zoo exhibit. It’s creepy and Peter isn’t sure he wants her anywhere near him, especially not after his nightmare. Delphi turns to look at her with a less than friendly expression on his face and the Terran decides he’s had enough. He’s feeling too vulnerable to put up with other people’s bullshit, or any bullshit for that matter, and on that note, Peter forces the muscles around his mouth to relax, relax, relax until he feels the mechanism tug. Then, carefully, Peter shifts his lower jaw left as far as it’ll go until he feels a slight pop. His right side is easier, coming undone a few seconds later, and the Terran holds in his whoop of joy as he crams his left hand into his mouth to pry the mechanism loose from his teeth. 

“Peter!” ”Consort!”

By the time the pair of Kree notice what he’s done, Peter has the whole device out and dangling from his fingers as he carefully tongues at his sore teeth. He works his jaw, clears his throat and instantly feels loads better. Delphi reaches forward, as does the female Kree, and Peter brings his right knee up to fend off Delphi and his right arm to keep the female away while he hurls the would-be muzzle to the other end of the room with his left. 

After they had taken the ship and disposed of the bodies via the airlock, Peter had learned a hard lesson in how to manage others. You see, three kids on the cusp of puberty, all from various species, backgrounds and cultures left alone in a disabled house of horrors ship in the middle of no where leads to some challenges that even Yondu’s unorthodox training in ship management hadn’t cover. Delphi, the junior aristocrat, wanted to be in charge but hadn't known anything about ships. Hovat, by far the physically strongest among them, had thought she should be in charge because of her strength alone. Even though he knew how to fix the ship, according to the other two Peter didn’t get a say about being in charge because not only was he physically the weakest, but because Terrans weren’t recognized as a sentient species. It’s hadn't been the first time he’d run into such sentiments but it had still stung given that Peter had thought the trio had bonded over their captivity. Apparently he'd been the only one to share such sentiment and, hurt by the dismissal, the Terran had sat back to let the pair bicker. 

The first day had been spent arguing about who gets to be in charge with no clear winner.

The second day had been spent arguing about what needed to be done and who was in charge.

The third day had begun with an argument over food, what equipment was a priority, and who had to do what duties. When the pair had both turned to Peter and begun giving him opposing orders, Peter had decided that he’d had enough and tells the other two to go fuck themselves.

Eventually, agreements are made via compromise between the three. No one is officially in charge though Delphi kept trying to be by pulling his social rank until the wrench incident put a stop to it. Unofficially, Peter wound up in charge because while he’d been off on his own, he’d been productive by gathering food and fixing the ship. Neither Hovat or Delphi had much in common with one another so the pair had gravitated toward him, initially independently but then together. Unfortunately, thanks to a thousand years of historical and cultural differences, the pair had a tendency to verbally pick at one another if there was no referee and Peter got very adept at neutralizing fights before they started by making each individual state their views in turn during discussions so that everyone could try and understand the other’s point of view. He wound up doing the same when they’d try treating him as less, when he'd had to remind them that he was an actual person and had actual feelings and was also the only one doing any fucking work. Thankfully those talks became less as time wore on but his current predicament is feeling eerily reminiscent of those chats.

“No!” Peter’s voice is louder than intended, much too loud with both of them so close in an enclosed space, but he refuses to feel bad as he looks directly at Delphi, ready to do battle and going right for the heart. “I am in a room I don’t recognize in a place that’s unfamiliar. I don’t have my weapons or my clothes and my ship has been destroyed. Taking away my voice is a no-go.” 

Delphi pauses then sits back, expression shifting from outrage to consternation to begrudging acceptance with an openness not usually seen in Kree. It’s the kind of expressional sequence one typically shows after having an obvious fatal flaw in what had been their awesome plan pointed out by someone not even involved in said plan's conception. The Kree makes a sharp sound with his duel vocal cords and the female also steps back though she looks perplexed and angry at doing so, her eyes shifting to the other end of the room where Peter had thrown his muzzle. Peter really doesn’t care how annoyed she is so long as she stays away from him so he turns his attention back to the warm Delphi-shaped stone sitting on the bed next to him. 

“Delphi,” Peter begins, sitting up to better face the other as he ignores the pink Kree parroting the name. Being able to talk and breathe properly again is a special kind of awesome and Peter quietly revels in it as well as the giddy reinforcement that Delphi is truly there. The Terran can’t help the reflexive smile but he does rein in his impulse to touch the other. “I have been looking for you for a very long time. I used every trick in the book but came up empty and just as I had given up, I end up hog-tied aboard a ship you happen to be on, too? What’s going on?”

Then his mind catches up to something the female Kree had said and he looks over to her for clarification. “Who you calling consort? Wait, who’s consort?”

Delphi turns toward the female Kree as she’s opening her mouth to answer. “Leave us , Do-Veh.”

She salutes with her right arm crossing her chest, bends forward at a perfect forty-five degree angle and exits the room without a word, closing the door behind her.

Peter watches her go and suddenly feels incredibly nervous as Delphi stares down at him. They sit in silence for a bit, the Kree’s mouth occasionally twitching as he apparently tries to find his words. After five minutes of silence, however, Peter’s patience gives out. If Delphi needs time, then Peter will give it to him because it’s not like the Terran doesn’t have enough of a mouth for the both of them. 

”You cut all your pretty hair.” And he really can’t help the sad note in his voice because Del’s hair had truly been very pretty and so long it had reached the other’s hips. It had been thick, too, and though it looked pure white, Peter had found strands of silver and white gold among the pale mass when he’d braid it. The Terran had thought the Kree had liked it, both Peter’s braiding and the braid itself, but maybe not if he had shaved it all off somewhere along the line. Peter eyes the top of the other’s head critically for a moment, specifically at the maybe inch long locks all over Delphi’s head, hazy memory tugging at him. “Though it looks like you’re growing it back out now. Funny I could swear you were bald not that long ago.”

“I shaved it as a display of commitment to a goal.” Delphi seems to relax and smiles slightly. “I have achieved that goal and can now begin letting it grow again but I do not think I will be able to get it as long as it once was. Will you still braid it for me when it is longer?”

”Hell, yeah, dude!” Peter laughs, then turns to the side and coughs hard enough that he can feel a wet crackle in his lungs. It’s minor, meaning that the worst of the sickness has passed though, if he wants to be at his best as soon as possible, he will still need to take care of himself. Being in sweat soaked pajamas probably doesn't qualify. “Del, can I borrow a shirt?”

He’ll just have to deal with the pajama bottoms being less than pristine since he doesn’t have the mobility but changing his shirt is doable. What he really wants is a shower to wash away his nightmare but Peter doesn’t think that would be the smartest action right now. He hurts, a constant throb that ebbs and flows with his heart rate like a low-grade current, and his joints are stiff and painful from having laid still for so long. Years of brawling and getting knocked about have given the Terran a high pain threshold so he knows that if he feels this bad now, Peter’s not going to feel any better walking around. 

So a change of shirt but, seriously though, once he’s ambulatory again, he’s getting a fucking shower.

”Shirt?” Delphi blinks slowly, like the piece of clothing is a new concept to him. Peter knows it isn’t so either Delphi is mentally a million miles away, which is kinda insulting, or the word the Terran has used isn’t something the Kree’s translator understands. It wouldn’t be the first time if it’s the latter. 

“Shirt.” Peter says again, this time also slowly signing the gesture with his left hand. It’s a long shot given how much time has passed but it’s amazing what random bits of knowledge will stay with you, especially in the wake of a traumatic event, so maybe Delphi remembers some of what Peter taught him of the Ravager sign language. 

The Kree cocks his head, watching Peter’s hand intently as the Terran makes the sign again. Delphi then replicates the gesture then hesitantly tacks on another one, tucking his thumb inside his fingers to make one massive fist that he bumps lightly against his temple. 

_Peter_.

The Terran grins, feeling warm, and reciprocates by signing back the gesture for Delphi’s name, flipping his hand palm up, closing the fingers straight and then opening them in a crude representation of a flower bud opening. The Ravagers don’t really have a sign for ‘flower,’ just ‘plant’ so Peter had had to improvise one for the Kree, just as he had had to do with his own name (rock) and Hovat’s (hammer) when it had been just the three of them. 

Delphi smiles and it’s the same shy smile Peter remembers from all those years ago. Then the Kree seems to shake himself and get back on track because he abruptly stands up and begins moving around the room looking very determined.

“Lights sixty percent.” Delphi commands while looking at the floor and running his hand over the length of wall on the left of Peter’s bed. The Terran blinks in the sudden brightness but soon recovers and feels part of him finally relax because now he can fucking see the entire room without squinting or straining.

The bedroom is large, easily big enough to accommodate the bed he’s laying on as well as a night table and what may be a large chest just barely discernible at the foot of the bed. The walls are cream in color while the furniture is all wood and stained what might be walnut or some similar warm light brown color. The floor is carpeted, cream to match the walls, so Delphi’s blue feet stick out like sore thumbs as the Kree stands against the wall where sections of it have opened up to reveal cupboard like areas and a wide closet area. Most of the cubbyholes are empty but there's a neat stack of clothing in one at roughly his eye level near the closet. The Terran spots his duster hung up in the latter with his blaster and its holster hanging from a hook next to it. Below, his boots have been lined up and on a shelf space opposite sit the shirt and pants he'd been wearing when he initially was brought aboard, both neatly folded and presumably clean. 

Peter lets out a low whistle in appreciation, both of the room and the fact his things have been carefully put away. “Nice digs. This your room Delphi? Sorry for taking your bed, man.”

The bed, it turns out, is both long and wide enough to probably fit Delphi, Peter, the pink Kree female and still have space for another adult. It makes Peter feel incredibly small and childlike but also bizarrely safe, which is a definate head scratcher as he idly pets the sheets, enjoying the soft fabric.

The Kree is still looking mostly at the floor but he’s no longer squinting and Peter makes a mental note to either find or make some sunglasses for the other before Del goes blind. “This is actually your room.”

”My what now?” The Terran swears that he must have heard wrong because this level of luxury is usually only reserved for powerful muckity-mucks of some flavor or for people a person wants to impress. As far as he’s concerned, Peter isn’t a powerful anything and he would have been impressed so long as the room was clean. This is well and truly over the top by any definition but even more so considering the relatively tenuous relationship between Delphi and Peter. It makes him suspicious, which the Terran hates and tries to ignore to better keep an open mind. Maybe it’s a Kree thing? Maybe this was literally the last room available on a full ship? Maybe Peter matches with the decor better in here-

He can feel himself pale and props himself up as his head swims, really, really wishing he hadn’t thought that as he flashes back to his nightmare and the workroom and Delphi’s head in a jar.

”This is your room.” Delphi repeats, lavender eyes darting up to Peter’s before being directed at the floor. “And these are your quarters aboard my ship.”

Peter feels his jaw drop, tries to recover and close it but only ends up gaping like a landed fish until part of him gets incredibly irritated by the fact the Kree can’t look up without going blind. 

”Lights fifteen percent!” This entire situation is ridiculous and ludicrous and now Peter’s a bit afraid to see what else lurks behind the door because Delphi’s implied there’s more to this little area and it all belongs to the Terran. It is both an exciting prospect and a daunting one and the feeling of suspicion grows inside the Terran to a, frankly, depressing degree. All he’d wanted was a new pajama shirt since his, a button down pale blue version of the one Delphi’s wearing is sticking to him unpleasantly. “Grab a shirt, yeah, and come here for a minute?”

After such bright light, Peter’s eyes need a minute to adjust so he tracks Delphi’s movements by sound as the larger male does as asked. The Kree must have suffered a head injury or something and Peter wants to check; after he’s pulled the new shirt -black and no buttons this time- over his head, Peter strikes once the Kree’s sat primly on the bed, grabbing a fistful of the larger male’s shirt and dragging him closer. The Kree lets him because there’s no way the Terran has the strength to do so if Delphi wants to resist and Peter peers suspiciously into clear violet eyes. He can’t find anything that suggests the other isn’t firing on all cylinders but Peter’s not taking any chances so he keeps Delphi close with his right hand and starts running his left over the Kree’s head looking for any sign of injury.

“What are you looking for?” Delphi’s tone has an odd note in it that takes Peter a moment to place since he’s so focused on trying to find anything out of place on the larger male’s head. The Terran knows the Kree’s not upset over the manhandling; actually, it may be the exact opposite and the Terran’s proven right a moment later. Delphi makes a small pleased hum and settles like a giant warm blanket over Peter, pressing the Terran back into the pillows propping him up and earning the Kree a grunt of surprise as Peter hastily moves his cast covered right arm out of the way. Though Peter’s not sure how the Kree is doing it, most of Delphi’s weight is evenly distributed so the new position isn’t as problematic as it should be. There’s no dent or anything obvious hiding under the Kree’s short hair so Peter slows his near frantic movements to something slower, idly curving his fingers so that his fingernails can scratch lightly at the other’s skin. Peter still isn’t ready to rule out methods other than blunt force trauma to make the Kree act strangely but his concern goes on his mental back burner in favor of amusement because Delphi settles heavily against the Terran and makes a sound that really doesn’t translate, which means its a Kree thing. Peter commands the lights off because he can literally feel the other relax bit by bit, weight becoming less evenly distributed as muscles loosen but not unbearable. The Terran spares a moment again wishing he was clean because Delphi’s nose is more sensitive than Peter's but the Kree gives no indication that being pressed against Peter is unpleasant. 

There’s always been something about being in total darkness that it the best time for admitting secrets. Probably because in the dark you can’t fully see the other person and as such it lessens the anxiety of seeing how the other person will react unless you are nearly nose to nose. Peter settles back against his bulwark of pillows and yawns, letting his left hand wander from it’s gentle scratching of Delphi’s head to the Kree’s neck and shoulders and lets his right settle lightly on the larger male’s upper back. 

“I looked for you.” Peter says quietly, pointedly staring upward into nothing and concentrating on keeping his voice even since, darkness or no, he’s not interested in giving away all his secrets. He also doesn’t want to wake Delphi if the Kree’s actually gone to sleep even if it means that Peter’s effectively talking to himself. “Yondu told me you’d been picked up by a Kree patrol so I kept checking Kree news feeds but there was nothing. I made contacts that worked in Kree controlled space and had them hunt for any word of a white haired, violet eyed male child being found but no one knew anything. I kept an ear open as I got older and started flying. I asked Hovat to keep an eye out for you which was an interesting conversation as you can imagine since she doesn’t get metaphors. I hunted down every rumored sighting, any trace that I got word of and came up empty- well, not empty exactly but not you. I even went to Hala looking for you.” 

That trip had very nearly killed him since Terrans are quite literally not designed to survive Hala’s atmosphere and high gravity. Add to that the fact that once Peter got to work investigating, a lot of guards of some flavor had started gunning for him and the Terran had not had a fun adventure exploring the Kree home world. Empty handed, Peter’d had to haul ass out of there and hide behind a moon on the Xandarian side of the Kree-Xandar boarder where he’d spent a lot of time crawling on the floor of the _Milano_ as a result, too sick and weak from the poisonous air to even stand let alone climb into bed. 

Proving that he has not fallen asleep and is actually paying attention, Delphi shifts, arms settling around Peter’s torso tight enough that the Terran can feel the other’s muscles flexing. Warm fingers stroke his sides shyly, as if unsure the gentle pressure is welcome or not. They are and Peter rewards the Kree by returning his hand to Delphi’s head and combing his fingers through the soft strands. 

”Eventually,” Peter continues around a yawn that’s strong enough to make his jaw pop and startle Delphi into raising his head, pointed chin propped on the Terran’s sternum. “After years of coming up empty, I came to two conclusions: one, you’d forgotten me. No, shh, it’s fine,” Peter murmurs when Delphi starts to protest. “It would be fine if you had. You don’t owe me nothing and to most of the universe, I **am** nothing. Been a long time and we were only kids from radically different backgrounds- realistically you should have forgotten all about me and been on your merry way.”

And that had brought about a type of grief that Peter hated more than anything; the ugly emotional quagmire of being left behind, again, intentionally or not. The Kree makes an unhappy noise that’s so low in pitch it vibrates along Peter’s ribs in a vaguely ticklish sensation as Delphi’s hands curl around Peter’s hips, the larger male shifting his head so that he can look at the Terran.

“I did not forget." The Kree states, voice positively outraged and petulant at the mere prospect. It makes Peter smile, something warm blossoming in his chest as he starts scratching his fingers along Delphi's scalp once more in an effort to soothe the other. Delphi settles but his narrowed eyes glow like twin flames in the dark. "What was your second conclusion?" 

"That you had died." Peter says softly, concentrating on the feel of the strands under his fingers, letting himself ramble as he quietly enjoys the reminders of the other’s presence; the slow rhythm of Delphi’s breathing, the heat he generates, the almost discomfort of the Kree’s pointed chin digging into his chest. “Didn’t really matter how though several versions took top place depending on what I was dealing with at the time. That you had been grabbed again and made into a monster. Or that you had been chopped up into little pieces. Or that you’d never been rescued and suffocated alone. All equally terrible. It made me very sad.”

Eventually everyone loses faith. People. Promises. Relationships. Themselves. After years of nothing, even Peter had given up, had had to finally put his childish promise away, had had to admit that he’d either been used and discarded or that his would-be friend was dead. It had been a blow, an emotional powder keg waiting to explode, and Peter knew he'd never be able to keep it contained once it went off. One of the biggest issues about being a pirate, especially with Yondu as a captain, was that weakness generally wasn’t seen as an asset. Having a meltdown among the crew wasn't an option; instead Peter had quietly stocked up on all his usual go-to goodies like some Xandarian brandy and Rigilian protein bars, used all his accrued time off and run home back to Terra, back to the place he’d once felt safest and detonated the landline in his chest in private. Sitting aboard his ship in orbit above his home planet, he didn’t have to be anyone but Peter Jason Quill as he worked through the emotional turmoil of salving his grief and general wallowing in self-pity over his incredibly stupid naïveté. 

Admittedly, it hadn’t been the most adult response to grief, but then again Peter had never claimed to be much of an adult. 

Peter inhales deeply To help calm himself and blinks away the burning sensation behind his eyes. He pulls a smile from somewhere and tilts his head to the right a bit so he’s not looking down his nose at Delphi. “I was very surprised to wake up and see you here. Thought I was hallucinating or that I’d gone crazy. It’s very unfair.”

Delphi’s eyes close and he makes a sound that would have been painful if Peter attempted to replicate it. Low and guttural, its almost a sob, as if some deep grief had been compressed into a little burst of sound. Before the Terran can attempt to comfort, Delphi is moving, the mattress shifting with his weight as the Kree suddenly shifts to lie on the bed beside Peter, then reaches out and hauls the smaller male against him roughly. With only a small noise of startled and pained surprise, Peter finds himself pressed against the Kree’s front and encircled by two powerful arms with his head tucked under Delphi’s chin. The Kree grips him hard, one large hand against his upper back and the other against the base of Peter’s spine, palms flat against the Terran’s form. 

”Delphi,” Peter murmurs, petting what he can reach, perplexed at the other’s rather extreme response. It’s an almost possessive reaction, possessive but also protective, as if Delphi’s trying to use his bigger body to hide Peter from some unseen threat. “Delphi, dude, what the Hell?”

“Ronan.” The Kree growls, hands kneading into the muscles under his fingers. Combined with the warmth Delphi naturally exudes it actually feels pretty nice, like a massage with too much pressure, right up until the Kree grabs a handful of Peter’s ass and then the Terran has to put his metaphorical foot down. 

Peter’s low on options since his hands are pinned below his waist so he tilts his head up until his lips are against Delphi’s throat. Then he angles his head, opens his mouth, and presses his teeth into the other’s skin around the Kree equivalent of an Adam’s apple while growling threateningly. He doesn’t break the skin but he uses enough pressure to ensure that Delphi’s going to have some interesting marks to explain- at least for the next few minutes since Kree heal so fast. Delphi’s hands immediately still then both migrate upwards to rest between Peter’s shoulder blades. Satisfied that he's made his point, Peter lets go and asks, "Who's Ronan?" 

Peter has heard the name but nothing comes to mind immediately which means that whoever it is must be important enough that there is information available but none of it has been pertinent to any activity the Terran has engaged in. He thinks he may have heard the name on some of the news feeds from Xandarian space but he takes anything from there with a grain of salt since they panic about, well, anything Kree related. Once he had effectively said goodbye to Delphi, taken some time to get his own head straight, and returned to the Ravagers, Peter had stopped paying much attention to anything out of Kree space unless reports of slavers or Outsiders popped up.

"My name is Ronan," Delphi says, his grip tightening as he cuddles Peter close. "And you are my consort.”

There’s a roaring in Peter’s head and static fills his head as his heart seems to drop out the bottom of his feet. He can only offer in response a faint, "Huh?"

"I asked you to marry me." Delphi says quietly but there's a defensive note to his voice that catches Peter's attention just as the hands on the Terran’s back retreat. The Kree stills and pulls back a little, a wall of cold opening up along Peter’s front as Delphi puts some distance between their bodies. "You agreed."

Many thoughts and questions crowd together in Peter’s mouth and he thinks he goes limp as his brain tries to process everything at once. He wants to swear and run away, just flat out run screaming into space. He wants to shake sense into the Kree because this isn’t how to begin major relationships, damn it. Part of him is still holding onto his anger and frustration because now, **_now_** the Kree gives him a fucking name? **_Now_** when it doesn’t fucking matter? Another part of him is oddly content with the idea, happy to be chosen for such an important bond even if he has no idea what it entails, and that part scares the absolute fuck out of the rest of him since there is a definite consent issue at play here. From what seems like a million years ago, Peter only has the vaguest memory of watching Delphi talk and then himself answering an affirmative but there’s no context and certainly no dialogue. It could be a joke except Delphi doesn’t seem to be yanking the Terran’s chain but Kree aren’t known to take vows of any kind lightly and outrage wars with everything else over the sheer audacity of the Kree locking him into something so permanent without letting Peter be part of such a radical decision. 

“Peter?” 

He’s been silent for too long and he still has no idea how to feel about any of what his happening since he can’t seem to concentrate on any one thread to untangle it from the jumble. The Terran knows that, eventually, he’ll have quite a lot to say but for the moment, he defaults to being funny and clever. “Isn’t the term ‘wife?’”

It is certainly not a shining example of his brilliance by any measurement and Peter can feel his face flame in embarrassment. _Oh, my God, brain, why are you like this?_

Delphi huffs a small laugh and shifts closer, one hand coming to rest lightly at first on Peter’s lower back, then more confidently when the Terran creeps closer for comfort. “’Wife’ is the term for the woman who will bear my children. ’Consort’ is the closest equivalent I could find for a male in Kree laws and culture.” 

Peter tries to think about that but can’t so he files it away to ponder later when his head isn’t so full. He leans his head forward, rests it against the upper swell of Delphi’s chest and quietly admits, “I don’t know how to be a consort.”

“I don’t know how to be a husband.” Delphi- no, Ronan- says in an equally quiet tone. He pulls the Terran closer and rests his head atop Peter’s, cheek pressed to flattened damp curls. 

“So... Was this a planned thing?” Peter eventually asks around a yawn, curiosity getting the better of him. “Or did something else prompt it?”

Any of the Kree’s skin touching him heats up to the point that the Terran has the brief fear that the larger male is about to spontaneously combust. The noise that Delphi makes as he clears his throat to calm himself is loud since their pressed against one another but the Kree’s body temperature starts dropping back to its usual range. “I had planned to ask you eventually but there were circumstances that necessitated usual courting protocol be... reimagined.”

Part of Peter wonders if the bounty on his head had anything to do with it. 

”We’re doing this all backwards.” Peter grumbles tiredly, wiggling his left hand up until he can grip the front of Delphi’s shirt and letting his eyes close. They are going to have a long, long chat about this, a very lengthy in-depth discussion about their ‘marriage’ and spell out exactly what it means to each of them but that’s for later. Right now his head is stuffed full of thoughts that thinking is difficult and he can’t determine how he feels about any of this, not when his aching body is begging for rest and sleep is trying to suck him under.

“I know.” And there’s a drag to the other’s voice that lets the Terran know he isn’t the only one needing a long nap. The Kree settles against Peter more firmly, carefully draping himself like a living blanket around the Terran’s damaged limbs and smaller frame.

”Still gonna call you Delphi.” Peter warns, feeling a spurt of possessiveness over that fact even though he has no idea where it comes from.

”In private only, please.” The Kree murmurs, sounding half asleep already. His voice is doing that odd out of sync thing where the lower range of his duel vocal chords drop to a frequency Peter can only detect as vibrations and the higher register starts tapering off. Peter knows from experience that if they were face to face, watching Delphi talk while also fighting off sleep would start to look like a badly dubbed movie because the Kree’s mouth and voice would appear to no longer be in sync. Baffling at first, it had become a point of hilarity to witness and sleepily Peter smiles, feeling the same sort of remembered contented fondness now as he’d felt when the pair and Hovat had slept in a puppy pile oh so long ago.

”Can we get a dog?” Peter’s asking before he consciously realizes it. 

The last thing he hears before sleep sucks him under is Delphi asking, ”What is a dog?” 


	5. Chapter 5

When he wakes, Peter is alone and **_ravenous_**.

Considering his admittedly not Kosher career path, going without food isn’t a new thing to him so Peter is used to missing a meal or three, especially when he’s out on a job light-years from civilization. However the sensation that beats him back to consciousness is not the usual missing dinner hunger; no, this is a snarling, unfamiliar beast that hounds him awake and doubles him over into a knot of tightly cramped limbs. Peter feels like he's imploding; his stomach is gnawing through his insides it’s so empty and his body burns with the veritable need to eat something, **anything** , right that minute.Sitting up reveals that he is stiff, so very stiff, but the recalcitrance of his muscles cannot undermine his body’s overwhelming need for food.

There’s an IV in his left arm connected to an empty fluid bag so Peter quickly pulls the line out and tosses it toward the bedside table, the resulting pinch of pain quickly forgotten as he belatedly realizes that his hard casts have been replaced by fabric support braces. Since hard cast removal is a loud, noisy process, especially in close quarters, someone must have trotted out the real heavy duty drugs to keep him knocked out during the entire thing. 

In a far from graceful move, the Terran manages to swing his legs over the side, his toes hitting the floor harder than they should and making his limbs prickle, the sensation mirrored unpleasantly all over his body like a full body shockwave. Peter isn’t exactly in pain, more in that weird grey area that lies right between ‘something ain’t right’ and ‘so very ow’ but it still makes him spare a moment of worry because the tingling is pervasive and makes his sense of touch fuzzy, for lack of a better word. Peter isn’t a doctor and spends most of his days pushing his physical limits because his life and livelihood depends on it so, as his stomach cramps hard enough to make him vomit, he pushes away from the bed. Between the drugs that may still be in his system, his body turning into a black hole, and the nausea that immediately rears up from the change in position, it’s not much of a surprise when his first attempt at standing lands him flat on his fucking face.

There are admittedly much worse ways to start the day, but it’s hard to remember other possibilities when Peter’s kissing the floor.

The hunger drowns out the shockwave of pain that floods through him as the Terran struggles to get his arms under him and lever himself upright. He’s starving, his body practically burning with the need for sustenance of some kind, the angry knot his stomach has become as it tries to eat itself an effective goad that propels him to his feet and soon Peter is making his shambling way out of the bedroom to find the kitchen. Practically blind to everything but the need to eat, it takes an eternity; he smacks into doorways, trips over his own feet twice, hits the floor again, careens into a very rude wall that magically appears in his path but ultimately, finally he gets where he needs to be.

The first place he looks is the refrigeration unit which looks almost exactly like a Terran refrigerator except the freezer section is on the bottom instead of the top and pulls out like a large drawer. It’s odd enough that even in his current state, part of his addled brain takes notice of the appliance’s appearance because it differs greatly from the standard box design that’s found on most starships. Clearly new, the metallic surface has no trace of fingerprints on either it’s front or the handles to either compartment at all and Peter feels despair worm its way through him at the possibility of it being empty. He has to start somewhere, however, so Peter reaches out to grip the narrow pull handle of the main storage section and realizes he has another problem to deal with.

He can’t make a fist.

To be more precise, he can make a fist but his fingers won’t close fully unless he truly concentrates. Even when he does, his grip is weak, the fist still loose, and his left arm trembles from the effort. The fuzzy tingling sensation from earlier is still thrumming through his skin like an undercurrent, intensifying each time he tries to force his fingers to comply with his desires. As such, his first attempt to pull the handle toward himself is more a slap than a grab. He tries again with his right hand and, again, his fingers refuse to grip anything even when he forces them to curl around the handle. He tries again, this time pushing the handle downward with his palm just in case his assumption of the mechanism is wrong but the door doesn’t budge and Peter wants to cry. Shaking and close to tears as he makes small frustrated noises, Peter bangs his head against the appliance’s surface and begs it to open as he fumbles with the handle some more. His knees nearly buckle as his empty stomach cramps sharply, the yawning void demanding to be filled and Peter can’t do anything about it because he can’t open the fucking fridge! 

Desperate, Peter looks around for something, anything to help him and looks at his arm then wants to kick himself for his stupidity. The Terran shakes his left hand out to get some slack from his sleeve, tugs the fabric with his right hand until he’s got enough to grip, then threads the fabric through the handle. Ducking down, Peter grips the excess fabric with his teeth and steps backward, using his body weight to pull the door open. He hears the seal give with a rush of air and hurriedly untangles himself from the handle because now that it’s open, the door moves with little effort, gliding easily on its hinges until it bumps gently to a stop, filling the kitchen with bright light that makes his eyes tear. 

The blast of cold air from the appliance is as gratifying as it is freezing, making already tight muscles seize and shiver as the Terran frantically looks for something with packaging he recognizes. He can’t eat a lot of what other species consider food not only because it doesn’t supply the nutrients his body needs but also because it could prove lethal. Peter also has no desire to spend the night on the toilet with his guts on fire or in the medical wing in surgery if he can avoid it so he tries to stay focused as he looks the well-stocked interior. He starts pawing through the fridge, clumsily knocking things onto the floor as his gaze roams over items of various shapes and sizes, most ringing as distantly familiar but not immediately as food and he doesn’t have the time to spare figuring out what everything is. Panic starts to set in; he needs something now, something easy to swallow and preferably with a high protein count since that will fill him up faster and he can’t find it! Stomach cramping again, the sudden pain has Peter nearly hit his head against the lip of the freezer section when his knees abruptly give out. Collapsed in a heap, sheer frustrated rage makes him want to bash his head against against the floor in defeat as he tries to wrangle what limited brain power he can to improve his situation.

He’s so hungry though, so hungry that he can barely think around it, so hungry that he’s going to be sick all over the pristine floor.

Blindly, Peter reaches a shaking hand into the depths of the refrigerator and hopes he finds something Terran friendly; he’s at the point that he’ll eat whatever it is regardless but it would be very nice if his search yields something safe. His fingers encounter some sort of bottle in a six pack and Peter hooks it with his palm, dragging it toward himself with the semi-coherent thought that rehydration will help his state even if he can’t find food. The Terran forces himself to look at his catch and blinks at it, dumbfounded as he processes the sight before giving an excited cry of victory, recognizing the item as a something he likes to keep a few around the _Milano_ despite the fact that the thick consistency requires him to both chew and drink in a very careful display of coordination.

Turning around to put his back against the appliance, Peter lets himself sit/fall the rest of the way to the floor and begins clumsily shaking the dull red bottle because he doesn’t want to choke on the cottage cheese-like consistency of the contents. The bottle’s screw top gives him trouble but Peter’s on a mission and nothing is stopping him from collecting his score, not even if he has to puncture the damn side and consume his prize that way! Holding the bottle between his thighs to keep it in place, he uses his palms to grip the cap to turn it, breaking the seal with a surprisingly loud pop. If he’s got a moment to relax, Peter gets around the near choking issue by drinking the liquid first, then using a spoon to eat the more solid components but that’s not an option today. He chugs the bottle, heedless of the mess he’s making down his front or the way his arms tremble from fatigue, Peter has never been happier to find Kree food.

It’s a product that’s as close as they get to fast food, a meal replacement item that, unsurprisingly, is calibrated for their metabolism and thus doesn’t have exactly what a Terran body needs. But it is food and that is all Peter cares about as he cracks open another bottle and chugs it down. Since his body is trying to eat itself, the Terran doesn’t have the luxury to take his time either so he just concentrates on continuously swallowing, on simply choking the contents down and occasionally pausing for both air and also to chew a mouthful that is particularly stubborn. He drains the container dry then forces himself to sit still instead of reaching immediately for more, breathing through the discomfort that comes from an empty stomach suddenly being stuffed full to bursting.

It takes a moment for the rest of his body to get the message but after a few moments the demand for food abates enough to allow Peter to think more clearly. The hunger is still there, though, waiting and he knows from experience that it’s going to be his constant companion for a few more hours until his metabolism settles back down. Despite the cold air from the still open refrigerator, Peter lets out a sigh of contentment now that he’s been fed and relaxes, alternating opening and closing each hand, making as tight a fist as he’s capable of. His hands still feel a bit wonky but at least they are responding correctly and the Terran lets out a relieved breath at that knowledge.

He stinks of sweat.

He doesn’t realize it at first but once he does, Peter can’t ignore it or the fact he just generally feels unclean. He remembers wanting a shower badly when Delphi showed up but having to put it on the back burner because Peter literally couldn’t get out of bed but he’s awake now and obviously able to walk. The thought of a shower is enough of a temptation to ignore the protesting of his muscles and lever himself upright once more, a task that proves so arduous that the Terran seriously contemplates just crawling on the floor instead. The only thing that stops him from doing so is the knowledge that Delphi or that other Kree chick could come back at any minute and though the Terran doesn’t have much dignity left, he’d rather not have to deal with that level of embarrassment. So upright it is, and Peter uses the fridge as a bulwark as he makes his clumsy way to his feet. Putting aside a bottle of his snack, the Terran shoves the remaining three back inside the appliance along with the other items he tipped onto the floor earlier. Swinging the door closed with a bump of his shoulder once he’s upright again, Peter grabs up his unopened bottle, calls for all the lighting to increase, then ends up whistling through his teeth as he finally gets a good look at his surroundings.

It’s a very nice apartment, with a mostly open floor plan that makes it seem even larger than it is which is saying something because it’s fucking enormous considering how much space is a premium on a starship. The kitchen is a full one complete with a sink, a sterilizer, the refrigerator Peter’s already familiar with, a cooking unit surrounded by a lot of counter space, a pantry, and several cabinets. There’s also a large metal dinette set tucked in the corner just before the smooth flooring of the kitchen area ends and turns into both the entrance way and the plush sitting area directly across from the kitchen. The door to the apartment looks like any other apartment door he’s encountered with nothing to suggest that it is anything more than is appears. Shifting focus, he eyes the comfy looking pale green couch and the two matching chairs, all looking soft and inviting if ridiculously large around the accompanying coffee table, but will have to leave them for later.

Starships aren’t like houses where you can just add or modify on a whim- they simply don’t have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to putting down necessary infrastructure for sanitation pathways, water pipes, or electrical conduits. Though there are a handful that get more creative, the vast majority of starship manufacturers follow set patterns and pathways when laying out rooms and the support systems to those rooms so Peter begins moving, using the kitchen sink‘s placement to estimate where the bathroom might be. Sure enough, on the other side of the kitchen wall closest to his bedroom are two plain grey doorways; one turns out to be a laundry area which means that by elimination the other must be his destination.

He pulls up short and stares because the room is an empty grey rectangle. Despite the growing insistence of his bladder to hurry, Peter stands in the doorway and simply stares for a solid minute trying to figure out exactly what is going on because all he sees in empty space except for what might be a mirror on the wall opposite the door. He’s sure he’s not wrong, that this is where the bathroom should be given the lay out of the apartment, but there’s no toilet, no sink, no anything other than the mirror reflecting Peter’s confused face.

"Lights thirty percent.” His voice echoes in the enclosed space as he warily steps into the middle of the room. Nothing overtly changes but somehow between the increased light and Peter’s new position, the optical illusion created by the room’s color scheme is destroyed.

Everything in the room is made of metal, he realizes, everything is the exact same shade of dull grey, so both the Terran and the red bottle Peter sets on a shelf near the doorway stand out like sore thumbs. The room is so monochrome that he still doesn’t actually find the toilet visually until his foot rams into the base when he takes a step with too much momentum but his stubbed toes will insure he doesn’t forget any time soon where the damn thing is. It’s the toes on his left foot and, cursing loudly, Peter hurriedly balances on his right leg so that he can strip the brace off and check the digits for damage. Finding no major bruising, he gingerly puts his left leg down, and drops his pants before sitting to use the toilet. He supposes it’s probably the safest way to find out if all his internal plumbing works so while his right hand is occupied cleaning himself up, he slides open the shower stall door with his left and fiddles with the shower controls to get it to a temperature he can tolerate. Considering how plush the place is, he has high hopes for enough actual hot water to let him feel clean.

Flushing the toilet, Peter limps a step to the right to wash his hands and starts stripping out of his current outfit, a set of dark blue pajamas which means that someone changed him while he was unconscious because he distinctly remembers wearing the black shirt Delphi gave him previously. It’s an unsettling realization no matter how much he tries to rationalize it and only makes him want the light and soft clothing off him all the more. Unfortunately, they fit him through the torso and shoulders very well so, while he’s trying to get it off, of course he gets his damn head stuck for a minute because his arms don’t seem to have the usual range of movement before screaming in agony at him. Peter can feel the aches of his overtaxed muscles building up as the minutes tick by but he doesn’t feel the pull of stitches or the scratch of bandages so he at least is in one piece even if he is still injured. He takes it slow, tugging, pulling and shimmying until he’s finally free of the fabric, naked and bare to the world. Swiping the little soap bar from its sink placement, he heads for the shower, thrilled at the steam permeating the room and the simple fact that the water hasn’t shut off his allotment while he struggled getting undressed.

As the warm water cascades over him in the well lit room, Peter finally can see the extent of the damage he's been sensing and he’s a mess, there’s just no other way to put it. His pale skin is a patchwork of colors, mostly the ugly yellow-brown that speaks of healing deep tissue damage, with the fading greens and pale yellows of lighter bruises and the shiny white of new scars thrown in for flavor. Peter quickly finds out that bending over is a terrible idea unless he wants to add dealing with a concussion to his day so getting clean becomes an exercise in patience, balance and ultimately sitting on the shower floor in defeat Which he can do so because the stall was made with someone bigger in mind. Legs stretched out in front of him comfortably, he leans back against the wall behind him, soapy hands tracing over the damage as he gets clean, the hot water helping to loosen his tight muscles and making the task easier so that by the time he’s done washing, even though he still hurts, he feels significantly better in general. Peter carefully climbs to his feet again and lets another minute or five go by before he turns the shower off, listening to the sounds of the water draining before getting out. He’s careful not to trip over the two inch lip of the shower doorway once he’s slid the door open and holds onto the sink to ensure he doesn’t slip in the puddle he’s creating on the cold metallic floor. 

“Fuck.” He says with feeling, realizing belatedly that he should have explored a bit more first since there aren’t any damn towels. He could always just shake until he’s reasonably dry but its not an attractive prospect since he’s fairly certain he’d sprain something if he did and he’s trying to avoid adding to his injury list, thanks. The room is warm enough that he’s not shivering yet but with the shower off it’s only a matter of time so with a heartfelt groan he lays a hand against the nearest wall and prepares to grab his discarded pajamas from the floor. There’s a pronounced click from under his palm and Peter snatches his hand back so quickly he nearly crashes into the sink behind him as a recessed door in the wall swings open, revealing not only white fluffy towels but an assortment of toiletries, everything from soap to body cream to toothpaste to shaving supplies, all still sealed in their original packaging and ready for use.

Peter may not be the brightest guy in the universe but there’s certainly an argument that he’s the luckiest.

Or maybe the unluckiest, he wonders as he shakes out one of the folded towels and dries himself off, a distant, nebulous worry nagging at the back of his mind; considering that he’s effectively been shanghaied and married off without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ Peter thinks he’s rather justified in his suspicions of what his future holds. But that line of thought gets derailed as the Terran abruptly realizes that, in fact, he might actually be the dumbest person on the ship since he fucking watched Delphi open cabinets just like these in the bedroom yesterday. Peter would slap himself if he wasn’t already so damn hurt. Stupid Kree efficiency that makes him feel fucking blind- aside from the kitchen where all the cabinets are obvious, the entire apartment is probably set up to have all the storage areas in every room hidden seamlessly in the walls.

Peter just knows he’s going to keep finding and loosing random shit for weeks unless he can get a fucking marker or something.

The material of the towel is as soft as it looks and soaks up the water like a sponge so Peter’s dry in nearly no time flat. He gives his hair a quick rub before wrapping the towel around his waist, determined to find something to change into after he chases the fuzzy feeling from his mouth and the scraggly beard from his face. Snatching a new toothbrush, toothpaste, a disposable razor and some shaving cream from the cabinet, the Terran vigorously scrubs his mouth out a few times, gargling and rinsing with water before putting the dental paraphernalia away. Once that’s done, he grabs his new shaving supplies and spreads the foaming cream liberally on his skin before using the razor since he doesn’t want to cut himself. There’s surprisingly little hair growth considering that he's been on his back for a while which means either someone has been shaving him on a regular basis and then stopped once he improved or he’s been here a significantly shorter period than his sense of time suggests. Both are equally likely, Peter thinks as he puts the shaving things away and leaves the room to get more clothes.

There were oranges in the fridge, real, honest-to-God Terran oranges.

The realization is so bizarre and so surprising that Peter nearly trips over his own feet again as he tries to head to the kitchen and the bedroom at once. There’s a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades that only seems to intensify the stiffness settling back into his muscles so he ducks into the bedroom, pressing his hand against the smooth walls until he hears a space open. Unsurprisingly, he finds the closet easily since it’s the biggest target but Peter forgoes donning his usual attire since its not exactly user friendly when said user is recovering from being beaten the hell out of. He does grab his pair of blasters though, checking to make sure they’re functional, and puts them on the bed for later. Since he’s not entirely sure what cabinet has other clothing, the Terran slaps at the wall some more to open multiple compartments, rummaging around in a few until he finds underwear and a complete outfit. It‘s a pair of pajamas, these ones red but identical in style to the ones Delphi had pulled out the other day and as soft as the pair Peter had woken up in. They are also one size too big but that will work in the Terran’s favor, allowing him slack and room to work with since his body isn’t as flexible as it usually is. All of the clothing goes on the bed next to his guns and, after a quick visual inspection of the items and the room, Peter closes the bedroom door for privacy.

Delphi had told him that these were Peter’s quarters, implying that all inside had been put aside specifically for the Terran’s usage. Barring the bathroom and wall storage, the environment is incredibly Terran friendly, like, _weirdly_ Terran friendly with its warm color schemes and yellow sun-mimicking lighting and maybe Terran oranges in the refrigerator. Delphi had said he was safe but that created more questions than it answered -did the Kree mean that Peter was safe inside the room or that he was safe aboard the ship? What was the Terran safe _from_? Did Delphi have knowledge of a threat that was hunting Peter specifically or Terrans in general? Peter doesn’t know and it’s making him a bit paranoid so he doesn’t feel the least bit silly fastening his holster around his waist even if it does make his pants sag. 

Because all of this screams cell, even if it is exceptionally cushy.

Now that he’s more awake, Peter pauses, his suspicions from earlier roaring back to the forefront of his mind as he looks over everything with a new eye, hunting for cameras or other surveillance equipment and not finding any. For all intents and purposes, he’s in a large well-furnished, luxury apartment aboard a Kree ship to parts unknown. Oh, and his husband- can’t forget the new hubby. Part of the Terran wants to laugh hysterically as he limps slowly from the bedroom to the kitchen but he shoves the impulse down, instead concentrating on the cream colored walls, the dark wooden accents dotting the decor here and there. The humidity, temperature and oxygen levels are all calibrated to be comfortable for Terrans- being in here must make Delphi feel like he’s underwater in multiple regards, not the least of which would be the whole breathing issue since Kree prefer a more nitrogen filled atmosphere. But then Peter remembers that the Kree have a breathing treatment that can enable them to withstand breathing not so Kree-friendly atmospheres with no side effects and figures that’s how Delphi’s able to sleep here without, ya know, suffocating. 

Peter reaches the kitchen and heads for the refrigerator, gripping the handle with a now compliant hand and opening it like a normal person. Warily, he looks over the contents; it’s entirely possible he imagined the oranges or that they’ll turn out to be Xandarian _chicha_ fruits that look exactly like Terran oranges on the outside but smell like cherries and will make Peter very, very ill if he eats any part of the fruit. There’s a lot of look alike food available in the universe which has proven to be both incredibly disappointing and medical emergency inducing so -outside of starving to death- Peter has learned to be cautious about what he eats. He finds the oranges and takes the whole meshed bag out of the refrigerator to the dinette table, handling the collection of fruit like one would a live bomb as he gently sets it down. Peter eyes the bag a moment before taking out an orange and sniffing it. He gives it a squeeze, feeling the firmness of the rind against his palm, testing the resistance of the fruit and trying to remember how soft was too soft to be eaten.

If it looks like an duck, quacks like a duck...

Peter sets the fruit on the table, turns to go find a knife, then has to quickly save the spherical fruit from falling to the floor because it tried to roll away. Slightly annoyed but also kinda excited, the Terran keeps the orange with him as he hunts for a knife and maybe a cutting board. A few opened drawers later, he’s got everything he needs and so Peter sets the cutting board down on the cream colored countertop, positions the fruit and cuts the thing exactly in half, ready to literally cut and run if the thing turns out to be a nasty joke. 

Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Other than a squirt of juice, nothing detonates or emerges from the fruit. It slices cleanly in two, revealing brilliant orange flesh, the halves rocking gently until they’ve spent the minimal momentum. The fresh citrus scent permeates the room quickly, fueling Peter’s internal excitement and goading him to further cut the fruit into six even wedges before picking one up and giving it a lick, ultimately sticking the whole thing in his mouth and compressing the flesh between his teeth as juice floods over his tongue. 

It’s an orange; a juicy, ripe, delicious Terran orange.

Peter’s knees feel weak so he puts the knife down and places his hands palm down on the counter for support as he kneads the fruit fresh between his teeth, bowing his head. It’s so good and so tasty that he can feel his eyes burning as he chews, the acidic juice finding small cuts and making them sting, the rind molding against the front of his teeth as he chews. Oranges had been his favorite food as a child and this is his first orange in decades so the nostalgia and accompanying memories of hot sunny days spent playing with his mom are to be expected but, still, the experience is a bit emotionally overwhelming. Despite the tears, he intends to savor every bite so Peter quickly swipes at his eyes and stands, placing the knife in the sink and quickly washing his hands before hurriedly opening cabinets until he finds a bowl to put the remaining pieces of the fruit in. He limps to the dinette set with the bowl held carefully in his right hand and uses his left to push in the closest chair until he hears the click of metal that signifies the locking mechanism has been released. On a starship, anything can become a projectile and even if Peter hadn’t already known he was on a ship, the dinette set’s arrangement would have tipped him off. Pulling out a chair, the Terran sets the bowl down and, happy, his lips stretch into a full on smile, teeth hidden from view behind the rind. 

The scuff of a shoe in the kitchen doorway startles him into freezing and looking up, smile still in place even as he spots the pink Kree from earlier. 

Her expression shifts from one of concern to horror. Behind her breathing mask, her mouth opens and she screams, long and loud, the sound so piercing that Peter instinctively claps his hands over his ears. He clips himself with the bowl he’s still holding and gets momentarily distracted by the resulting pain of nailing himself in the temple with the piece of crockery as well as trying to prevent his precious orange wedges from spilling everywhere when he nearly drops the bowl in response. He barely manages to set the bowl on the table before he’s nearly tackled by the female Kree who has stopped screaming but is now intent on trying to pry open Peter’s mouth. Since she’s eight feet tall and out weighs him two to one, the Terran doesn’t have much chance of fending her off but Peter swats at her anyway, alternating between shoving at her torso and trying to peel her hands away from his head as she demands particulars about the onset of symptoms, voice muffled through her breathing mask.

He has no idea what the hell she’s talking about and being manhandled is not how he wants to begin his day so, when his efforts to make her let go prove ineffectual, he gets a hold of her wrists and digs his fingers in, pressing down harshly on the pressure points in a set pattern until her hands spasm. Once her grip is weak enough, Peter rips his head away and hobbles out of her reach as fast as he can while pulling his blasters, the weapons unfolding easily. He keeps backing up until he’s in the main walk way, a good fifteen feet away from her, blasters humming softly in his grip as he keeps his eyes on her.

He knew the set up was too good to be true.

Kree are bigger and faster than Terrans, almost supernaturally so due to all the genetic tinkering they’ve done to their species’ development as a whole. From what is generally known about Kree culture, it’s mostly imperialistic so all Kree learn how to fight from an early age regardless of future occupation. If every citizen can be called to arms and every last one of them are built to withstand insane amounts of damage, then its understandable why many of their galactic neighbors will go to great lengths to avoid fighting and why, if a skirmish breaks out, extreme force is used- like raze the ground, salt the earth levels of force.

Things aren’t helped by the added bonus that Kree do not take defeat well- at all. It’s more than just being a sore loser, too; being a veritable fighting machine means that Kree have an arrogance streak the size of a planet but if there is a possibility that they might be defeated, everything becomes life or death, as if their very self worth is hard-wired into how unbeatable they are. They are a proud people and it shows in all they do, united in their perseverance and their strength, in their ability to meet a threat head on and annihilate it. They have to win, period; failure simply isn’t an option, something about being unable to live with the shame of it. Peter doesn’t understand it but after being kidnapped by Yondu, he’d had to make peace with a wide variety of things, not the least of which being that he was on the _fucking menu,_ so he just accepts the Kree cultural quirk and carries on.

Water is wet, Earth’s sky is blue, the Kree are the Spartans of the universe. Sure.

It became one of those nebulous universal truths that didn’t hold much meaning until Peter started going on runs on his own and Ker-Voh had warned Peter to shoot to kill if he encountered a Kree patrol on a random plant. Ker-Voh, who didn’t enjoy violence, who knew everything about any engine in the Ravager fleet, who was always so painfully careful anytime he touched Peter to clap the Terran on the back or playfully ruffle his hair, who always advocated diplomacy first, had outright said to kill or run if a Kree was his opponent. Peter hadn’t taken the warning well at he time, had seen it as a friend having no confidence in the Terran’s ability to defend himself, but a job gone bad had shown him that Ker-Voh was right because Peter had had to watch as a Kree had effortlessly twisted the head clean off a fellow Ravager with his bare hands. The Kree had then kept coming, hunting Peter and what remained of his group through the streets of a small settlement until Peter collapsed a construction scaffold on the bastard. A fuck-ton of metal and concrete and the Kree warrior had still crawled out and tried to chase after them.

When perfectly healthy Peter can’t take a Kree in a straight up fight, not even the mousey scrub wearing medical affiliated whatever in front of him so he faces her, keeping his gun trained on her steadily and ignoring the way his hip aches. His left shoulder echoes the sentiment as he holsters the gun in that hand and reaches up with his left hand to take the orange wedge out of his mouth. Too much exercise too soon, Peter realizes with a mental sigh of irritation but then his attention is drawn to the sound of a peculiar electronic humming from his right. It sounds very similar to an airlock cycling open and Peter has the absurd thought that he’s about to get sucked into space before the entrance to the apartment slides open and a large blue Kree male enters. 

His new visitor is dressed in the signature green armor the Accuser Corps wear, the apartment’s interior lighting glinting off the silver accents on the rim of the hood, sleeves, and ankles. The new comer’s eyes are hidden behind a black protective eye mask and has a clear breathing mask fitted over his mouth and nose that fogs gently as he breathes. His left hand is empty but in his right hand he carries the signature hammer his occupation is known for, positioned upward in preparation to swing. The guy is big and built like a square, as if he’s been hewn out of a small mountain, nine feet and change tall with wide shoulders. There’s something familiar about him though, which is equal parts puzzling and annoying, and Peter frowns as the blue Kree seems to take in the apartment, Peter, Peter’s gun and what Peter is aiming said gun at. The Terran tenses, adrenaline flooding his system until he shakes as he readies himself to throw his body backwards and use the couch for cover because if both Kree attack, Peter’s going to need all the help he can get. 

_‘Safe’ my ass!_ The Terran thinks irritably. 

But then the Accuser gets down on one knee, setting his hammer on the floor next to him as he puts his right hand across his chest in a salute. “Greeting Consort Commander. I heard a scream and came to investigate.”

Despite how big his body is, the Kree’s voice is ludicrously high, similar to how high Terran voices can get after inhaling helium, and lacks the distinctive duel-tone all blue Kree have. Part of Peter wants to immediately laugh and, in fact, a corner of his mouth does hitch up instinctively but he controls the impulse by focusing instead on carefully taking the orange out of his mouth. Holding the wedge securely with his left hand, he bites into the flesh firmly and pulls it from the rind, trying to think as he chews thoughtfully on the fruit and looks from one Kree to the other contemplatively.

Delphi will probably be upset if Peter shoots his people.

The Kree chick is familiar in a vague way and she can obviously come and go as she likes from his room.

Despite the fact that he is very much out numbered and cornered, no one is attacking him or has harmed him outright.

Part of him feels downright silly with his gun out but he wants assurances before he puts it away. Fuck it- might as well get straight to the point. Using the orange rind, he gestures at the female Kree who is blushing blue and looking rather sheepish. Good. "Grab me again and you will regret it. Understood?”

She nods, looking down. Keeping an eye on her with his peripheral vision, Peter carefully turns his head to watch the Accuser still kneeling on the floor. “Are you here for her protection or mine?”

”Yours.” The Kree promptly answers and Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the incredibly high voice. 

“Did Del- did Ronan send you?”

”Yes.”

Interesting. “I’m going to put my gun away and head into the kitchen. Mr. Accuser, would you kindly get off the floor and have a seat on the couch? Ms. Doctor if you would sit near Mr. Accuser and keep your hands to yourself, that would be awesome.” 

The Accuser picks up his weapon and climbs to his feet in one fluid motion. Peter nods in approval and deactivates his blaster, putting it away in his holster then limping forward. The female Kree sees him coming and quickly sidesteps out of his path to give him a wide berth then keeps going out of the room. Alone in the kitchen, Peter takes a deep breath then lets it out slowly, leaning against the dinette table with one hand pressed against the grainy surface and letting the texture distract him from the way his brain buzzes, his thoughts skipping uselessly beyond the concepts of food and sleep. Now that he has the opportunity to actually get some concrete answers about what is going on, he finds he can’t form the questions and that is so irritating he can’t even describe it in words. He does know that he wants the other two gone, though.

His bowl of orange wedges is sitting just where he left it and the Terran picks it up, though his enthusiasm toward the fruit has markedly dimmed, Peter’s childhood nostalgia now tainted by fear and pain. He had just wanted to enjoy his oranges, had just wanted to enjoy the quiet happiness they inspired then go back to sleep. Was that truly too much to ask from the universe? Had he offended it by wanting something so fucking simple as a snack and a nap? Scowling, he tosses the used peel he’s still holding into the sink and rifles through the drawers looking for a napkin. There aren’t any but he does finds a tea towel and flips it over his shoulder before heading out to see the pair of Kree waiting in the sitting room area.

When Peter walks back in, they are both sitting on the couch and the Kree female is so close to the male that it might have been less awkward if she had merely sat herself on his lap. She practically vibrates with energy as she sits there, her hands curled strangely in her lap, and she keeps glancing between the male next to her and the Terran. His hammer propped against the side of the couch, the Accuser doesn’t appear bothered by her close proximity, merely watches the Terran attentively as Peter looks at the remaining seating options available and picks a seat.

“Do you require assistance, Sir?” The Accuser asks as Peter scales his chosen seat, one of the large over stuffed chairs that matches the couch. It had looked ridiculously big from the kitchen and now that he’s trying to get onto it, Peter finds that it’s somehow even bigger, a fucking gigantic monstrosity that is clearly not meant for someone Peter’s size but it’s the closest available in height unless Peter wants to sit on the couch with the pair of Kree. 

There’s no way he’s going to sit on the couch.

“No, thank you.” The Terran grunts, shoving his bowl of orange wedges and his blaster ahead of him onto the wide cushion as he climbs up, bracing his hand against the chair arm and hopping on one foot to propel himself upward. It’s not like climbing a mountain but the experience feels markedly similar so by the time he finally gets onto the chair, everything hurts and his leg is aching fiercely enough that he begins rubbing his left thigh in an effort to soothe it. The chair is very comfy, the plush material reminiscent of velvet against his skin, but it also makes him feel child sized as he drapes the tea towel over his thighs and then places the bowl on his lap. The blaster he keeps within easy reach by his left hand. “Now I know how Alice felt.”

“Alice?” The Kree female inquires, head cocked to the side like a bird. 

“Alice. She’s a character in a Terran story called ‘ _The Adventures of_ _Alice In Wonderland_ ’ who follows a white rabbit and ends up in another world. At one point in her adventure she drinks something and it makes her very small.” Peter explains, distracted, his attention more on selecting the best wedge from the bowl. He chooses one, picks it up and uses it to point at the Kree female. “Now, why’d you come visit?”

The female doesn’t immediately respond, too preoccupied watching Peter shove the slice in his mouth, but the Accuser clears his throat which seems to goad her into speaking. “I came to check on you. I have been assigned as your personal physician and placed in charge of your care while you are aboard.” 

She’s young, too young, to have achieved all the training the Kree empire requires for their doctors. Could be a medical student, Peter supposes as he separates and eats the flesh of the orange from its peel, chewing thoughtfully as he looks the female over critically. Delphi had said that he and Peter were married and since Del seemed to be the captain of this vessel, that should have made Peter effectively the captain’s wife and thus fairly high in the food chain since, for all the faults inherent in Kree culture, they did not bind themselves lightly to anyone or anything. So, if Peter is right in his thinking of his placement in the power structure- and to be honest, that is a very big _**if**_ \- then it’s even weirder that he has a _pink_ Kree in charge of his healthcare. 

“Are you a doctor?” Peter asks, watching her as he selects and eats another wedge.

She shifts slightly, belying her discomfort with his question, but she looks him in the eye directly when she speaks. “I have all certifications necessary in applied medical sciences and an accompanying degree in xenobiological studies to provide you with excellent care.”

“So, no.” Peter hums, ignoring the naked dismay that appears on the female Kree’s face as he eats another wedge. Curiouser and curiouser- perhaps he’s not as important as he suspected or that the wife of the captain is merely not worth allocating an actual doctor for. Or maybe there's only one doctor on the ship which doesn’t make sense given that the ship, if Peter is remembering correctly, is quite sizable and having only one physician is asking for trouble considering the size of the crew required to run things. Even if Delphi is running with a skeleton crew, that’s still over a hundred individuals to care for and there’s no way a single doctor, even a talented one, could adequately provide medical services for so many people. Kree for all their faults do care about their people and they keep some sort of ridiculous ratio in mind when it comes to medical services for patients -Peter thinks it might be two to one- which makes it all the weirder that he’s being treated by what amounts to a veterinarian technician on such a big ship. 

_Oh._ A different possibility comes to mind and the Terran cocks his head to the side. “You’re the only one who would take the job, aren’t you? No one else with actual medical training on this boat would agree to treat someone they consider a lower life form.”

The Accuser‘s jaw drops and looks aghast, just absolutely outraged at the possibility and turns toward the female, seemingly waiting for her to deny the accusation but the pink Kree only stares hard at her lap, her cheeks steadily turning a darker blue as she remains quiet.

Peter nods, unsurprised. "Gotta love that racism.” 

“I am sorry.” The Kree female says softly and Peter shrugs.

"Not your fault.” Peter soothes because she does look genuinely upset and the Accuser is looking between the pair and appears to be royally pissed, which is actually quite interesting. “Terrans aren’t a recognized people to the Kree empire- or any of the large empires, now that I think of it. You had a text, right? I think you had a data tablet when we first met? That you were consulting for how to treat me? I’m surprised The Kree have any medical texts on Terrans, frankly.”

“Master Ronan gave it to me.” The female brightens and the fading color in her cheeks returns as she flushes again, this time, Peter thinks, with pride. “He received it from a contact that has been studying Terrans directly via cultural immersion. I have been studying it continuously so that I can be as effective as possible when providing medical support. I had not thought I would be having to do so quite so soon, however.” 

Peter nods in agreement, finishing another wedge as he mentally puts aside the fact that there’s Kree on his home planet. It’s not exactly a surprise given the relatively short distance between Earth’s and Hala’s respective positions but it does make him feel a bit unsettled all the same, a deep disquiet that he can’t entirely express.

He clears his throat to banish the feeling and continues the conversation. “The biggest problem with Terran biology is that it is _almost but not quite_ like other recognized species. We are _almost but not quite_ like Xandarian physiology so while their medications will work as intended, it will also cause a whole slew of side effects, so on that note don’t use the marrow booster you gave me before because a second dose so soon will kill me.”

The pink Kree swallows and pales, looking a bit ill as she presses her lips into a firm line. “What side effects did you experience?”

Peter reaches for another wedge and finds only one left. The vague idea of sharing crosses his mind but he’s immediately overcome by the fierce possessive streak that he’d thought conquered years ago and the notion is dismissed. It doesn’t matter that there is literally a whole bag of oranges in the kitchen and that he can have more any time he wants in the foreseeable future. He doesn’t know these people and it’s his orange, damn it, **his** , and he’s not sharing with anyone! He pops it in his mouth quickly, chewing with vindictive pleasure, savoring every bite and sighing a little out his nose in satisfaction as he swallows. He can feel a blush trying to crawl up his cheeks, the more civilized side of him feeling guilt over his selfishness and shame over his table manners, but he ignores it, busying himself with cleaning up his mess and wiping his hands clean on the tea towel.

“Terrans aren’t really built for space travel,” Peter begins, rubbing his cheek roughly before yawning into his palm. “So, yeah, still working out all the kinks about how our biology deals with being in space. That said, I’ve been in space for most of my life so I’m more familiar with what’s on tap medically in most systems. That Xandarian marrow booster? Turns out that that’s a once a month thing because if you supercharge our metabolism too much, like using a medication not designed for our system to force it to over-produce red blood cells so that it can heal faster than it’s supposed to? The fat reserves I need to function get burned up.”

Peter has to stop speaking because he can hear the underlining anger creeping into his voice and getting worked up isn’t going to solve anything. It’s hard though because he takes anything that nearly kills him personally, even if it‘s an accident, but he can see that the pink Kree knows she’s fucked up; rubbing her face in it isn’t productive, just vindictive.

Instead he begins ticking side effects off on his fingers in a calmer tone. “Let’s see... Cognitive function decline, cardiac failure, inability to thermoregulate, loss of motor function, musculature decline, multi-system organ failure and death. I don’t think there’s a particular order to it or any guarantee that all those things will happen but those are some of the major big issues I’d like to avoid.”

The Kree female drops her gaze from his face to her hands in her lap, the digits still curled, and looks very pale. Her eyes are too wide, the skin seemingly stretched too tight over her bones, her mouth a tight pucker with her lower lip sucked in between her teeth. 

Whoops; Peter may have gone overboard making his point. He clears his throat sharply to get her attention and offers her a wan smile. “So, almost, but not quite.” 

“Which did you experience in response to your current exposure to the medication?” The Accuser asks when the female remains quiet.

"Not sure.” Peter hums, absently scratching his chin as he ponders the question. “Think I woke up before things got too bad. Fell all over the place trying to find food so I’ll be finding bruises for a while. Got to the kitchen then couldn’t open the fridge- Oh, right! I couldn’t make a fist because my fingers couldn’t keep tension! That’s new, by the way- never had it happen before.”

The Terran wiggles his fingers and flexes his hand, making a fist, then releasing, then making a fist again. Everything responds as it’s supposed to and other than feeling a little stiff in a knuckle or two, there’s nothing to indicate anything was ever amiss. If he hadn’t experienced it earlier, he wouldn’t believe something like it could happen but he did so he does and Peter makes a mental note to keep an eye out for similar issues in the future. 

“Anyway,” Peter blinks and gets back to his story. “I managed to get the fridge open and find one of those little Kree liquid meal snack things.” Shit, he left the bottle in the bathroom so he’ll have to grab that later. “I’ll have to explore the fridge in a bit for another snack ‘cause I’ll probably finish the pack in the next day or too until my metabolism evens back out.”

The female Kree is looking at him strangely, an expression that is somewhere between horrified, impressed and fascinated. It makes Peter’s skin crawl. “You are still hungry?”

The Terran hums in agreement, letting himself become distracted by the stiff feeling of the knuckles of his right hand. Peter is used to being flexible so the fact that a part of him suddenly isn’t grates against his awareness acutely until he finally just gives in and begins cracking the stiffness out of the joints. The resulting pop is loud in the quiet of the room and the attention of both Kree home in on his hand instantly.

"My knuckles are stiff.” Peter explains as the now alarmed looking female opens her mouth. “I’m getting excess fluid out of the joint and that’s where the sound comes from. I’m not injuring myself.”

He’s had this conversation multiple times because ‘cracking’ a joint is unheard of by most galactic species. For some reason it always strikes Peter as odd that this harmless habit is the one that most often weirds other people out- not any of the other unique to Terrans traits, just the fact that he can redistribute the fluid of his joints so easily. Doc had damn near had his species version of a heart attack when he’d heard an eight year old Peter do it for the first time. 

“You are sure that is not a means of self-harm?” She looks like she wants to grab him but her hands are still in her lap, fingers pointing upward in a way that can’t be comfortable and it occurs to Peter that she hasn’t moved her hands at all while they’ve been sitting here. The fact nags at him and his eyes narrow at her hands, watching her fingers as he reassures her that no, he isn’t intentionally hurting himself, holding up his right hand where she can see and using his thumb to crack the first knuckle of his index finger. Her fingers twitch but her hands stay curled, like she doesn’t have full control of them, and guilt makes Peter let out a heartfelt curse as he realizes that he definitely used too much pressure when he defended himself earlier.

Putting the bowl beside him on the chair cushion, Peter braces his hands on he armrests of his seat and pushes himself forward off the chair. The intent is to land on his feet gently and approach the pair of Kree but what actually happens is that, as soon as his feet hit the floor, his legs fold under his weight so Peter just ends up sliding off the chair onto the floor in a heap, narrowly avoiding the coffee table situated in the middle of the little seating area.

“Are you alright?” Both Kree are on their feet and the Accuser is already moving to help while Peter blinks stupidly at the coffee table that is now at his chest level. 

“Uhh,” He says intelligently, still a bit baffled by this development and warily wondering if the bowl and his upholstered blaster are about to tumble down on his head. When nothing else happens, he turns his attention to his body, trying to figure out if he’s hurt himself further; nothing hurts exactly and he can feel all his limbs although his injured leg is very unhappy with all his weight on top of it. Still puzzled but determined not to panic, Peter shifts a bit until he’s more comfortable, his hip popping loudly in the process as he straightens his legs out and wiggles his toes. “Think so?” 

Besides the echos of pain throbbing through him, everything seems to work but Peter’s wary of trying to stand again. No matter; he was going to have to get close to the female Kree to fix his fuck up but having her lean over him to do it wasn’t something he was looking forward to. He nods at the Accuser, the larger male crouching down within touching distance on Peter’s left but making the effort to stay out of Peter’s immediate space even as the Kree positions himself to be able to see as much of the Terran as possible.

“Are you positive?” Putting herself on Peter’s right, the female Kree kneels onto the floor opposite the Accuser, trying to use her hands that still refuse to obey and instead stay curled even as her fingers twitch to brace her weight as she does so. Though she is able to sit down safely, she looks frustrated and Peter holds up a hand to forestall any anger.

"I’m never positive about anything.” He says flippantly, then lays his hands on the table in the space between them and motions for her hands. “Now, lemme seen your hands. I can fix ‘em but I’ll need to touch you to do it.”

"What are you going to do?” The Accuser asks, watching as the female awkwardly extends her arms toward Peter. The Terran takes them gently, selects her right and begins rubbing the forearm with firm strokes of his palm. 

“So, the scream you heard earlier was from her.” Peter says, ignoring the question and frowning as he shifts his grip to begin massaging her palm with his thumbs. “She thought I’d lost my teeth, I think, and grabbed me. Since I have a bit of a phobia about being grabbed, I retaliated like I would to any hostile individual since I wanted to make her let go as expediently as possible.”

The muscles under her skin are still tighter than they should be but they are beginning to yield as he continues and Peter shifts his grip to work on her wrist. She winces, her expression becoming pinched with pain, but makes no move to pull away. 

“What did you use to injure her?” The Accuser asks and there’s a note in his voice that gives the question more weight.

Remaining focused on his task, Peter makes an inquiring noise as he processes the question then holds up one of his hands and wiggles his fingers before returning it to the Kree female’s hand. 

“That should not be possible.” The Accuser says. He says it as if it is a widely accepted fact so Peter doesn’t take it as an insult even though he could and probably should. Technically, the Kree isn’t wrong- Peter shouldn’t have been able to hurt her due to how low a risk an unarmed adult Terran poses to a Kree but adrenaline makes a lot of things possible and Peter doesn’t play fair in a fight.

"Many things are possible when I’m around.” Peter says, moving from the Kree female’s palm to her fingers, occasionally pausing to gently shake or pull a digit when he thinks the tendons have loosened enough. He doesn’t expect an answer but the pair of Kree look at one another as if for guidance and Peter gives them his most winsome smile before continuing. “Seems to be a Terran thing.”

There’s a beat of silence broken only by a muted pop from the female Kree’s fingers as Peter continues his work.

Then the Accuser’s eyes narrow at the Terran. “That does not answer how you were able to cripple her.” 

“Maybe, but that’s all you're gonna get.” Peter huffs a quiet laugh as he presses the female’s hand between his own, flexing the fingers back and forth, gently manipulating her palm into a tight fist before flattening it again, stretching the fingers out as far as they will go. Then he switches his grip to her wrist, holding it tightly and shaking the appendage out with an abrupt motion. All her joints pop in a cacophony of sound and the Kree grunts from discomfort, her face screwed up in obvious pain that transforms into surprised wonder as she flexes the hand in Peter’s grip, the fingers moving freely at her command. 

The Terran grins broadly in satisfaction, pleased.

"There we are!” He says, taking her other hand and beginning the process again as she continues to flex the one he just fixed. “Almost good as new. If you can, I’d tell whoever you report to that you’ll need to be taken off the duty roster until tomorrow. Tomorrow-ish? I dunno what time it is. You’ll need a few hours downtime to let your muscles relax fully or else they’ll tighten up again. No heavy lifting, no weapons, no sparring, no work. Go take a nap or something.”

On the last, Peter has to tuck his head into his shoulder to hide another yawn because he’s also going to take a nap just as soon as the pair leave. His hands keep moving, manipulating her arm and fingers as he had her other limb but his mind is already preoccupied with the idea of crawling back into bed or even just sprawling here on the floor to catch some more Z’s. The latter might be the better option because he’d be so near the kitchen; when he gets hungry again he can just roll over and grab himself another snack with significantly less potential of hurting himself. The abrupt noises of her arm unlocking startle him out of his thoughts, and Peter blinks slowly as he tries to refocus on the pair of Kree. 

“It is the beginning of the second duty cycle.” The pink Kree sits back, running her hands over her arms before flexing both hands into closed fists then spreading the fingers wide repeatedly. “I cannot remove myself from the roster.”

Irritation pricks at Peter and he can feel it leaking into his expression before he can stop it. He takes a breath, holds it, and schools his expression into something more calm because he is well aware that when he’s tired his patience is always the first casualty. So is his ability to think straight, apparently, because as empathetic as he likes to think he is, it’s still a struggle to see her point because, yeah, if Peter was just beginning his shift and suddenly had to duck out abruptly, Yondu would’ve given the Terran an earful. Probably all the way to Peter’s room but at least the elder pirate would have understood that injuries needed to be treated.

Peter scowls at the table and rubs his face roughly with his hands. "Do you have other patients to look after?"

"I- no." She says, hesitantly, as if sensing a trap but unable to see it. "My purpose is to look after your well being."

He can't help it; Peter makes a face at her words because, honestly, the idea is incredibly creepy and he just wants her to get the hell away from him. "Then tell whoever you report to that, short of an emergency, you're unavailable for the rest of your shift. Unless they want you truely disabled and are willing to take responsibility for the injury."

The male Kree intervenes even as the female opens her mouth. "Would she truly be permanently affected?"

Peter shrugs. "Dunno. Anyone I've ever done it to has died not long after."

From being shot, but why quibble? He's being deliberately misleading and the look the Accuser gives him says that, plainly, the other is aware that the Terran is trying to pull a fast one. 

"You do not like Do Veh." The Accuser states instead of outright calling Peter on his bullshit.

“I don’t like a lot of things right now.” Peter scowls darkly at his hands then looks back up. "Who's Do Veh?"

The pink Kree makes a noise, her expression twisting back into alarm. She starts to move toward Peter and, scowling deeper in her direction, the Terran simply points at her in warning. If she touches him, he will do her violence again and he lets his voice reflect that promise when he hisses out, "Don't."

"We introduced ourselves previously when we initially met." The Accuser continues, one eyebrow raised. "I am Cy Mon and she is Do Veh. We are your attendants, personally assigned by our Master to insure your health and safety while aboard the _Dark Aster._ "

“This is our first time speaking together.” Peter counters. At least that he remembers.

"But not our first time meeting.” The blue Kree explains as his expression teeters between concern and insult. “We introduced ourselves after we pulled you out from under the wreckage of a bench. You do not recognize us?”

"Nooo,” Peter drawls out, trying to get in order all the thoughts swirling in his head. Peter doesn’t remember the blue Kree at all, nor most of his trip to this room beyond his captor’s inarticulate screeching once they arrived. The Terran does remember the pink Kree though but they’re only small glimpses of her caught just before an injector bit into his skin so that’s not exactly a positive association. It does explain why he is so adverse to her being in his space, however, so Peter files the realization away for later examination. “Everything about my getting here is less than pleasant and a bit scrambled thanks to the head injury. The fever didn’t help either. Or, ya know, the trauma. I’m still a bit out of sorts so don’t take offense, please.”

He tacks on the ‘please’ because if the Accuser decides to take offense then the Terran is just going to be paste on the wall, there’s just no other way the fight will end and good luck to the pink Kree if she thinks she can scrape Peter back together again after that. Also, who gets all pissy about not having their first meeting being remembered by all the attendees or giving a mulligan to someone with a **head injury**? Maybe it’s an insult, like a, ’you were so beneath my notice that I didn’t bother to remember you,’ kinda thing. Peter gets forgotten constantly, but he doesn’t get all upset about it; in fact it’s become something he relies on in certain situations like meetings, ironically enough, so he can sneak out and have a smoke.

Peter is **so** going to have a chat with Delphi about the selection process for the Terran’s pair of babysitters. And did the Kree really name his vessel after a Terran flower? Because that is just all kinds of funny. Where was Delphi, anyway? Peter isn't aware he's asked the quesion aloud until the Accuser speaks.

"Who is Delphi?"

"It is how the Consort refers to Master Ronan.” The pink Kree answers before Peter can speak. He gives her a flat look and she wilts under his gaze.

In Peter’s peripheral vision, he can see the Accuser nod in acknowledgement. “Master Ronan is currently off ship and Lieutenant Korath has been given command.”

The new name doesn’t ring any bells so there’s no way to know if the person is a reasonable individual or someone Peter needs to wary of. The Terran rubs his face roughly with both hands and does not growl in frustration like he wants to, he doesn’t. Instead he leans back against the chair behind him and presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, inhaling a lot of air through his nose before exhaling slowly as he watches stars burst behind his eyelids. He tries to think of a socially acceptable way to tell the pair to fuck off and can’t because he’s spent and very much done with the day. Peter would have given a lot of units right then to be able to lay on his bunk in the _Milano_ and lock all of this nonsense outside the ship’s door. But his ship is gone, whatever left sfter the crash probably picked up by Yondu by now, and Peter is stuck here, alone, in hostile territory with only his grief over his home being destroyed as company. 

“Okay,” Peter says, putting his hands down and blinking in the strong light. His grief will have to wait until he can get the pair out. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Dove-”

“Do Veh.” The female Kree corrects quietly.

"Dove,” Peter blithely continues over her. “Is going back to her quarters to rest. Simon-”

“Cy Mon.” The Accuser corrects, stressing the strong combination ‘ _kst_ ’ and ‘ _th_ ’ sounds on the first syllable prevalent in the Kree language that Peter’s throat can’t make.

Exasperated, Peter throws his hands up. ”Look you two, sorry in advance, but I’m gonna butcher everyone’s name because I’m physically incapable of pronouncing some of the sounds in your language. Now, you two are leaving. Simon, please return to your duties. Dove, you are going to go back to your quarters to rest your arms. Anyone gives you shit, tell them you were injured and can’t lift anything. If they still give you shit, ask for the paperwork to file for permanent disability. That usually shuts people up.”

"What will you be doing?” Dove asks sullenly, her tone earning a shocked look from the Accuser. Considering how very Kree they appear, neither seem to have gotten the memo of unflappability that most of their race received. It’s weird and odd that Peter isn’t having any of his usual issues when reading Kree faces and while part of him wants to congratulate himself on his awesome people skills, the rest of him is cautious of the entire situation. 

So Peter merely arches an eyebrow at her, a bit surprised as well at the unveiled challenge in her tone. “For the next few days I’ll be in a pattern of sleeping and eating as I fully metabolize that blood booster. I don’t need you here for that and, honestly, I prefer privacy. Leave your kit here if you brought it so you don’t have to tout it around.”

He’ll self medicate if necessary or ask Del for help if Peter can’t figure out what level of pain reliever is non-toxic. Worse case, the Terran’ll just suffer through and leave the kit alone. 

“But your injuries-” Dove begins, looking near tears. 

“Are mostly healed and there isn’t anything you can pull out of that bag that can make them all magically disappear.“ Peter interrupts, trying to be patient and not cave in to the desire to comply with whatever she wants so long as she doesn’t actually cry. If push comes to shove, maybe he can ask Simon to bodily remove her from the premises? “I’ll be fine without you hovering over me. This isn’t even the worst I’ve been knocked about.”

_So get out,_ hangs unsaid between them all but it’s implied nonetheless, as subtle as a blazing neon sign. 

“I will leave!” Dove’s face screws up as she flushes an impressive shade of blue, the skin around her mouth and eyes tightening into fine lines that stand out starkly in her pale face. She stands and, quick as a viper, jabs a finger in Peter’s face, making the Terran rear back out of reach instinctually. “But you will wear a medical bracelet while I follow your command! Cy Mon will check on you in my absence and you will allow it!”

She’s panting through her nose, her face still flushed, but she looks absolutely serious in her demand. Peter has no doubt that she’s ready to fight him over it so he just shrugs because he’s won and won’t have to deal with her.

"Sure.” Peter says, trying to be amicable while her finger hovers near his nose. To distract himself, Peter holds his right hand up to her and holds still as Dove pulls a Med-snap from her pocket, the band cinching to his skin before the device runs through its calibration protocols, beeping quietly as it blinks a benign yellow. The Terran smiles at her and knows its not exactly pleasant, more a baring of teeth than anything remotely sociable despite the polite tone he speaks with. “Remember not to lift anything.”

“Wear your braces!” Dove commands firmly then seems to deflate now that Peter’s acquiesced to her demands, and the lost look on her face makes her suddenly appear very young. She stares at him for a few seconds longer, then jerks into a clumsy salute with her hand diagonally across her chest before abruptly turning from him and heading for the entrance way. If she stomps as she leaves, then the carpet swallows the sounds because the only noise Peter hears is the door going through its protocols as it opens then closes behind her. 

The Terran immediately feels himself relax, surprised at how tense her presence had made him. He shifts and bites his lower lip to keep in the groan that wants to escape as he attempts to find a more comfortable position on the floor while using the coffee table as cover as he rubs furiously at his bad leg. 

“You do not like Do Veh.” Simon says again, his voice and tone carefully neutral around the statement. Though the Kree doesn’t move and seems perfectly content to continue sitting on the floor, Peter still has the distinct impression that the other can see what the human is doing.

The Terran forces himself to stop and sighs, then rubs at his face instead. ”She’s not exactly associated with pleasant things and most of the few memories I have of her consist of her drugging me into oblivion anytime I opened my eyes.”

"You were quite injured.” The Accuser states, watching Peter like the Terran’s a puzzle the Kree is trying to solve. Peter wonders if the other is playing the Kree equivalent of Devil’s Advocate. “Keeping you sedated while you healed may have been the best option for both your safety and hers while she treated you.”

Peter nods, more out of acknowledgment of the other’s point rather than agreement. “Possibly, but my autonomy is important to me and I don’t take kindly to anyone taking it away.”

He’s had to fight too hard for too long to let a stranger waltz in and take control, even if it may be for the Terran’s benefit.

“Perhaps,” The Accuser concedes and stands, careful not to bump the coffee table as he climbs to his feet and makes Peter feel like a munchkin in comparison. “However, given how injured you were and still are, it may be prudent to consider the sacrifice of some of your autonomy to an individual whose life is tied to yours as a self-serving act rather than as a form of personal punishment.” 

Peter frowns, ready to argue until something more alarming in the wording catches his attention. “What do you mean, ‘her life is tied to mine?’”

"Master Ronan chose both Do Veh and I to be your current attendants.” Simon salutes again and bows low enough that, if he’d wanted to, Peter could’ve patted the other on the head. “It is our duty to protect and serve you. Our lives are tied to yours.” 

“And what happens if I don’t, uh, like you, either of you? What happens if we can’t get along?” There is a sinking feeling in the pit of the Terran’s stomach, making him feel ill and wish he hadn’t eaten his orange. Peter can feel himself paling and his heart picking up speed. 

"Then we will either face reassignment or termination, depending on how much we do not ‘get along.’” Simon straightens, towering over the Terran, and despite how awful his words are, the Kree’s posture and tone remain neutral, as if they’re discussing something else entirely, something completely mundane and not the Kree potentially getting punished just because Peter doesn’t like him. Peter makes a faint sound of protest, horrified at the prospect that a thoughtless word from him could potentially get the pair killed. 

“That doesn’t make any sense!” The Terran explodes, waving his hands, as if that will help make his point. Peter also tries climbing to his feet which becomes difficult since his left leg has fallen asleep and refuses to work, his right hip and leg aching as it tries to his full weight. But, still, Peter tries his best to stand anyway. “You’re an Accuser! And Dove’s a medical something! Both of you’re more valuable than me...”

“Pardon me.” Simon, apparently fed up with watching Peter flail like an idiot, simply steps forward, hooks his hands under the Terran’s armpits and lifts the other up onto the chair Peter had been using previously, right next to the Terran’s blaster and bowl. The Kree does it so quickly and with such ease that Peter is still processing how he got in the chair even as he watches the Accuser step back to his previous position. “Please continue, Consort.”

Peter’s mouth moves but he’s lost his train of thought as well as his head of steam so what does eventually tumble out is just a childish whine. “And that’s another thing- what exactly does that even mean?!”

The Terran drags his hands over his face, feeling both overwhelmed and woefully uninformed and incredibly pissed all to hell over it. It’s like he’s been thrown head first into the deep end of a lake with an invisible weight strapped to his ankles; he still processes the ability to swim, knows he can swim and is swimming but Peter’s missing crucial information as to why he’s still sinking despite paddling for all he’s worth. 

“Master Ronan did not explain your new position?” The Kree asks and there’s a note in his comically high voice that indicates that he’s a bit confused about something, too.

“No!” The Terran says, honestly lost. Peter flops back against the chair in a heap and doesn’t even care how ridiculous he must look. He runs a hand through his hair and fists a handful, tugging in frustration. “I got a very quick, ‘Hey, good to see you, by the way we’re married’ and then I couldn’t stay awake anymore. If I knew he was going to jump up and run away in the morning, I’d’ve asked more questions yesterday!”

Simon makes a sharp sound that’s reminiscent of someone awkwardly clearing their throat. "The day before yesterday. Master Ronan left the ship yesterday.” 

A hot spike of something shoots through Peter. It feels like he’s been kicked in the chest, and a large knot of emotions seem to swell inside his ribcage and constrict his ability to breathe. It hurts, and the Terran instinctually curls around the perceived injury before he can stop himself, knees coming up, arms drawing in. 

“Are you alright?”

“What?” Peter’s voice is faint, drowned out by the pain in his chest and the headache pounding behind his eyes. Turtling up hasn’t helped anything except destroy what little credibility he may have had with the other male so Peter takes a slow, deep breath through his nose, holds it, then exhales as he forces his limbs back to their previous position. “No. I’m fine.”

And he is. Fine, that is. He’s absolutely fine because nothing he’s learned changes his current situation. Peter is still very much injured, still very much stuck on an unfamiliar Kree vessel, and still very much on his own despite being married to Delphi. The only thing that has changed is that he’s now got a pair of babysitters as well as the added bonus of knowing that he’s going to be information blind about everything about his new title. Out of all the things on his plate, the latter seems the safest item to address considering how much weight titles have among the Kree. At some point, Peter will leave his room and it would be nice to know what’s expected of him while out and about if not for his safety than for everyone else's.

He’s fine, he’s fine. Peter is **_fine_**.

He's married.

_Oh, my God, how is this even my life?!_

He scrubs his hands over his face then slaps his thighs sharply, the resulting stinging sensation helping him pack away the tangled ball of emotions trying to choke him. Pushing everything aside, Peter focuses on the Accuser. “Being a Consort. What exactly does that mean? Here, on the ship, I mean. Is it a sitting-pretty title or does it have actual responsibilities?”

“‘Sitting-pretty title?’”

“Empty words,” Peter elaborates, rubbing at his temples as he tries to relieve the ache behind his eyes. “A title to make someone feel important even though the title doesn’t have any actual meaning. Something you would make up to pay lip service to your girlfriend... Or boyfriend? Lover?”

The Terran flounders a bit, distracted from trying to find the correct term as well as the implication that, in return for everything the Kree has done for Peter, Delphi probably expects certain _things_ from the smaller male, things Peter doesn’t know if he can give. On the heels of that anxiety inspiring thought is the depressing realization that he may now fall under the category of ‘arm candy,' or equivalent accessory. Anyone who falls into that classification is no longer a person but a thing to look at and cause envy in others.

_Oh, my God._ Peter can feel panic building inside him as the full weight of his situation settles around his shoulders like a heavy mantle. He honestly can't decide which would be worse; being regarded only as little more than a bracelt or being used as little more than a sex doll. 

“There are no such things among the Kree.” For a moment, Peter is confused because if there are no lovers among the Kree then where do baby Kree come from but then the Terran realizes that the other is referring to empty titles and feels dumb. Simon shifts his weight, adjusting his feet and posture into whatever the Kree equivalent of parade rest must be, and Peter feels a quick flash of guilt for not letting the man sit back down. Before he can say anything or gesture to a chair, however, the Accuser is already speaking.

“The Consort’s primary responsibilities are regulated to overseeing the welfare and safety of the crew. Generally, the Consort ranks right below the Master of a military vessel in terms of power and mainly deals with the more domestic affairs that help a ship’s crew function.”

"Okay,” Seems fairly straight forward even if it sounds weirdly like he’s essentially taking on the role of den mother. “Who do I talk to about what needs to be done?”

Simon shifts his feet. It’s subtle and would be easily missed if it wasn’t just the two of them in the quiet setting so before the Kree even speaks, Peter knows he’s not going to like the answer. 

“The position has been vacant until now.”

The Terran’s headache blossoms into a full on migraine. Peter puts his head in his hands, sighs, and speaks from behind his fingers. “So I’m inheriting a mess because no matter how self-sufficient each division or unit is on this boat, I’ll bet a good amount of units that no one is co-ordinating between them all and only the biggest issues get brought to Delphi’s attention.”

A sudden beeping fills the air and Peter blinks, raising his head to look at the Med-snap on his wrist, thinking that that is where the noise is coming from but the little device is quiet. Puzzled, the Terran realizes that the sound is coming from Simon just as the Kree presses something on his wrist guard before assuming his stance.

"What’s up?” Peter asks when no explanation is forthcoming and watches as the Accuser glances upward with a frown.

"The ceiling...?” Simon hazards, his frown deepening.

Holding in another sigh and pushing away the urge to roll his eyes, Peter clarifies. “What was the alarm for? Comm. call?”

“No. It was the alarm that the filters of my respirator are about to fail.” Simon explains but makes no effort to leave; instead he just stands there, posture relaxed, as if he isn’t in danger of imminent suffocation.

Peter waits a beat, expecting the other to excuse himself but the Kree doesn’t and the Terran refuses to deal with a dead Kree on top of everything else. He struggles off the chair wincing, unable to suppress the expression as his legs take his weight and his body adjusts to being fully upright once more. He wobbles but his legs hold and, after the flare of relief over the fact he won’t hit the floor again, Peter turns his attention to the Accuser. The Terran glares, his expression mulish, and the tension that hadn’t been present in the Kree’s posture is suddenly there as Peter limps across the short distance toward him. 

“Out.” It says something for how tired- or stupid- Peter is that he willingly gets within grabbing range. He only comes up to the Kree’s sternum and has to lean back so that he can properly glare up at Simon. “Being able to breathe is non-negotiable. Time to go.”

Simon begins to salute just as his respirator alarm sounds again, this time the pitch high enough that it makes the Terran’s ears complain, and Peter just grabs the hand over the Kree’s chest and begins to haul the bigger male toward the door. The Accuser complies, allowing Peter to drag him down the hall in an unsteady stomp and palming the door open at the Terran’s insistence. 

“Bad Accuser, no cookie!” Peter shoves the larger male out the door and into the dim hallway beyond. There’s a bit of resistance before the Kree crosses the threshold but it isn’t because Simon is putting up a belated fight; Peter pokes at the empty air between them once the other is across and discovers a transparent forcefield covering the doorway. 

Well, at least that explains how Peter isn’t suffocating as he stands there with the door open.

“'Cookie?'” Simon questions, taking off his respirator just as the alarm begins to ring shrilly. It echoes unpleasantly off the corridor walls and draws some curious looks from a maintenance crew working on a vent nearby. 

_Oh my God, I bet I can make cookies!_ Peter banishes the inappropriate realization to the far reaches of his mind and instead puts his hands on his hips, discretely pulling his pants up a little higher since the weight of his holster is dragging them down. “Don’t do that again. I don’t care if you can hold your breath for an hour- if that thing rings, you need to leave. Period. Don’t wait to be dismissed, don’t try and be polite or whatever. Just leave. Is that understood?“

“I am not finished answering your questions.” There is an almost defensive undertone to the otherwise even voice. The Accuser shifts his body, bringing attention to how much he towers over Peter and the Terran doesn’t know if it’s an intentional move or something done unconsciously because the other feels like he’s being treated unfairly.

If Peter is essentially Simon’s superior officer, then the body language makes sense as well as the fact that, despite the fact the Kree feels a bit attacked, he hasn’t simply reached through the doorway and throttled the Terran. Peter forces himself to take a deep breath through his nose and hold it for a count of five before releasing it. Chasing his own anger away, he eases down from his authoritarian pose and lets his arms dangle by his sides, trying to project peace and relaxation since antagonizing the other isn’t his goal.

"For today, you are.” Peter keeps his voice firm but friendly. “I appreciate how thorough you are and I have a feelin’ that it’ll be a trait I’ll be counting on in the near future. So we’ll continue tomorrow, when everyone’s rested and is able to safely be in here with me. Dove and you and I can all sit down together again and try to... figure this all out.” Just the thought of his new responsibilities as Consort make Peter exhausted and he rubs his temples absently as his headache flares. 

“I am still able to preform my duties.” Simon insists and Peter blinks up at the other, perplexed.

“Of course you are.” The Terran says, letting his confusion show. “Whoever told you different?”

Expression twisted into something ugly in a truly fierce display of emotion, the Kree glares down at Peter and part of the human wants to recoil from the very unfriendly vibes pouring off the other. The Terran stands firm, having always made a point of not backing down when afraid (mostly because he’d never accomplish anything because there’s always something to be afraid of), so Peter just lets his genuine confusion show until Simon blinks, expression smoothing out into something more calm if confused.

"You know that you’re important, right?” The Terran decides to get back to the original point of this conversation when the larger male doesn’t say anything. “That means that your safety is a priority and since the air in my rooms is poisonous to you, then you can’t be in here without proper gear. Get the filters replaced and then we can continue, later. Much later.” Peter has to turn, covering his mouth around a massive yawn. He rubs at his eyes and face and sways a bit on his feet. 

“Master Ronan warned us not to bother with deception.” The Accuser states, studying Peter intently as the human blinks at the other sleepily. The Terran doesn’t understand the scrutiny since, as far as he’s concerned, he’s done nothing to warrant it. “He said you would neither appreciate nor tolerate it from the people around you. He warned us that you conversely might not always tell the truth but that we should not doubt your sincerity.”

“‘We?’” Peter’s brain is mush, and he’s struggling valiantly to follow the conversation. “You mean you and Dove?”

“As the Consort, you have a squad of individuals assigned to assist and protect you. Do Veh and I are merely the attendants assigned to you currently by Master Ronan but you can replace us if you deem us inadequate. I will introduce you to the others at a later date.”

Peter feels himself nodding, but it’s the absent motion people do to show they’re paying attention to a conversation that they have long tuned out of. He’s valiantly trying to remain engaged but its a loosing battle and if they continue for much longer, the Terran is merely going to keel over again and that really isn’t an outcome he wants to deal with, mainly because Peter is convinced that Dove will never let it go. As Simon prepares to continue speaking, Peter puts a hand up to stall him.

“Tomorrow.” Tact is highly over-rated anyway so the human just gets to the heart of it. “I can’t keep talking to you right now.”

Peter waves goodbye at the startled Accuser and hits the door control panel, the portal loudly sliding shut between them. Swaying on his feet, the human takes one look at the suddenly endless path to the sitting area and lurches toward the kitchen instead, using the nearest wall for support as he half drags, half hops his aching self to the dinette set. He sinks down into the chair he pulled out earlier, letting out a groan as he folds his arms on the table surface and rests his head on his forearms.

Peter will regret sleeping like this, he knows, but the thought is fleeting, gone in seconds as his body succumbs to the need for rest.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter blinks up into near total darkness with the gentle and familiar sound of Delphi’s soft purring snores in his ears, the Kree curled against the Terran’s right side in a long lump of warmth with an arm thrown across Peter’s chest. The human realizes that he’s been tucked in with just the sheet from his sternum down with his limbs arranged to lay straight and that alone lets him know that he didn’t get in bed under his own power because Peter always ends up in either a heap or a human pretzel. The only times he sleeps in a reletively normal position is when he’s sharing a bed with another person, either a lover or because the situation demands doubling up. He’s usually the big spoon during the latter scenarios, his inherent fragility as a Terran inspiring some serious paranoia that makes him unable to sleep if he’s the little spoon but currently, other than being a bit stiff, he feels great.

Like, really great.

Like, worryingly great because he feels rested and alert, energetic even, like he can take on the world and handle any problem thrown his way and that is a rough one eighty from his usual mindset. Peter’s pain free, too; all his limbs respond as he spends a moment wiggling his toes and fingers, concentrating on flexing muscle groups as he mentally maps his body from head to foot as the Kree’s grip tightens briefly, fingers tangling in the cloth of the Terran’s pajama top. Peter yawns quietly as he stretches, a full body movement that arches his back, joints popping loudly in a cascade of sound, twisting carefully to avoid smacking Delphi with an elbow because the Kree is practically wrapped around him.

“That is disturbing.” The Kree’s voice, rough and growly from sleep, is right by his ear and nearly startles a yip from Peter. A second later, one beautiful lavender eye opens half-way, the iris glowing faintly like a single light in the darkness surrounding them.

Peter shrugs then grins up at the other, pleased and happy that the Kree is here even if he can’t fully articulate why. He turns onto his side toward Delphi so that he can face the other properly, the Kree’s hand falling into the narrow space between them as the pair end up nearly nose to nose. “What, Kree don’t stretch?”

“We are not that flexible.” Peter watches as the lavender glow vanishes and listens as the growly voice peters out and the purrs resume. There’s an odd tug of his clothing and the Terran realizes that Delphi’s tangled his fingers in the cloth again, almost like the other knows that Peter’s ready to get up and trying to prevent it. 

The Terran waits a few minutes, just listening to the other breathe peacefully, his own fingers drifting down to gently explore the unfamiliar territory of the back of Delphi’s hand. Peter finds dips and callouses, traces along faint barely-there scars, mapping the general layout of the warm, nearly hot skin under his fingers while breathing in the heavy scent of spearmint surrounding him. Doing so brings his attention to a thick band encircling his wrist alongside the much thinner Medsnap that has somehow appeared again but Peter’s annoyance at the item is immediately swept away by the more overwhelming sense of nostalgia pervading his thoughts. 

_We all got so big._ Peter thinks with a wry smile, debating a moment if he wants to try going back to sleep himself or get up and shower, ultimately deciding that getting a shower would probably be a better use of his time. With the practiced ease born from past one night stands, the Terran easily slips out of Delphi’s grip and gently tucks the other's hand against the sleeping Kree’s chest. 

Since the room is pitch black and he doesn't want to risk waking the obviously tired Kree, Peter extends his leg behind him in the estimated direction of the door and uses it as a guide out of bed. Sliding out from between the soft sheets, the Terran sets both feet on the floor and takes slow, short steps, hands out in front of him as he navigates the dark room until he finds the exit. The hallway is just as dark, as is the rest of the apartment apart from the muted glow of appliances from the kitchen area, so once he shuts the bedroom door, Peter orders the lights up slowly to a setting that will allow him to see comfortably. Glancing down at his wrist and ignoring the silver Medsnap, Peter twists his arm back and forth so that he can finally examine the mystery band, frowning at the matte black thing and unable to figure out what it is. The band itself is made of inch wide segments and almost looks like an access wrist strap for a club except it appears considerably more durable and chunky in design. After fumbling with it for a minute, Peter finds the recessed clasps keeping it in place and unhooks them, taking the thing off and carefully turning it this way and that for some sort of clue to its identity before eventually admitting defeat and putting it back in place. It’s not bothering him or hindering his movements and it’s not uncomfortable to wear so it can stay put for now. 

Scratching his head and yawning as he moves down the hall, Peter decides to head for the kitchen but stops once he catches sight of the living room, specifically the number of glasses on the coffee table and the rumpled blanket on the couch. 

“Aw, I missed a party.” Genuine disappointment tries to tank his mood, as does a flare of irritation because he’s the one that’ll have to clean up this mess, but Peter takes a breath and sighs it out, attempting to rid himself of the negativity as he grabs a few glasses to bring into the kitchen. He’s cleaned every duct on the _Eclector_ \- a few glasses is nothing he can’t handle. Turning, he nearly trips as he stops short, the glasses in his arms rattling from the abrupt shift in momentum.

_Oh, what the fuck?_ Peter feels his jaw drop as he processes what he’s seeing as he stares into the kitchen. If a party took place in the sitting area, then a war took place in here. There are several mixing bowls on the counter, filled with what might be different types of batter, at least one of which has the consistency of sludge. There’s puddles of khaki goo on the floor, broken up by dustings of unidentifiable powders that have also gotten on the counter, the refrigerator handle, and a few cabinet handles. Several oranges have been eaten because the rinds are still in the sink, as are a couple of cracked eggs, dried yolk smeared on the counter and some of the mixing bowls. There are open spice containers on the countertop and a cup filled with dirty utensils on the dinette table along with what might be a set of star shaped cookie cutters next to a cutting board that is so caked with heaps of white powder and streaks of yellow goo that Peter wonders if someone has been snorting drugs in his kitchen. 

Delphi’s asleep so the Terran isn’t going to be getting any answers from him but there is someone else Peter can ask. Irritated, he puts the glasses he’s holding in the sink and heads for the door, absently wiping his hands on his pajama bottoms before palming the door controls and pushing through the force field as soon as the portal finishes hissing open.

“Hey, Simo-woah.” Peter begins in a sing-song voice then has to cut himself off because there’s no one outside his door other than a maintenance crew of pink Kree huddled around the front of a duct across the hallway. Frowning, the Terran blinks in the low lighting, ignores the way the air seems to suck the moisture from his skin and looks around again, this time lower, then has to immediately switch gears mentally. “Sorry! Uh, hi, I’m Peter. I’m looking for Simon. Have you seen a big guy? About double your height, build like a blockade? Accuser armor?” 

Peter has to stop himself from crouching to be face to face with his new guard because being condescending would be rude. At nearly six feet, the Terran rarely considers himself tall since everyone is usually bigger than him but the universe lately seems to be in a playful mood because the new guard is maybe five feet, if that. Wrapped from head to toe in black armor, the only hints of color on the whole outfit are the white band across their face over their eyes, a pale blue backpack slung low on their back and dark green hilts of a pair of blades on at their hips. The armor is reminiscent of the Accuser armor and even has the hood-like head covering, but it’s not as tight to the body and has some sort of textured surface that helps to further blur the wearer’s outline which creates illusion that the person isn’t real. Since all identifying characteristics have been hidden away under the armor, Peter can’t tell if the individual is a Kree let alone what their gender might be. It’s like he’s looking at a modern, space-oriented interpretation of the stereotypical Terran Japanese ninja. Peter can honestly say that he’s never seen anything like it and it flat out makes his brain stall. 

To their credit, the individual takes Peter’s blatant staring in stride and merely snaps off a crisp salute with a low bow before straightening and shaking their head. They watch Peter attentively and he realizes that they’re answering his previous question. 

“Right,” The Terran says, blinking and giving his head a shake to reboot his brain cells. He’d had a purpose coming out here and even if he’s currently at a loss, he still wants answers. “Do you know what the deal is with the mess in my kitchen?”

”You’re not supposed to talk to it.” One of the maintenance crew calls and Peter frowns, looking at the speaker and taking offense on his new guard’s behalf. The worker sees him looking and preforms a casual salute as he briskly bobs up from a shallow bow in a way that suggests the action is more an automatic gesture rather than one of respect. Peter inwardly frowns over the casualness of the exchange then realizes that if some rando appeared in the _Eclector's_ halls wearing nothing but a pair of rumpled jammies then he'd probably react the same way, higher ranking or no. Once he’s sure that the Terran has seen the salute, the worker nods and turns back to the other workers poking at the open vent, but throws an explanation over his shoulder when he sees Peter still staring at him. “They’re Shamed.”

”’Shamed?’” Peter repeats the word and even though he knows what it means, he still can’t make any sense of it in this context. He frowns at the crew a moment longer, then turns his attention back to his new guard, who has produced a data pad from somewhere and is holding it up with the screen facing toward him. Obediently, the human leans down and attempts to reads the screen but feels his ears flush a bit in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I can only read bits and pieces of Kree glyphs. Do you have any other languages loaded?”

Someone in the maintenance crew snorts and Peter feels his shoulders hunch automatically. He’s not illiterate or anything but somehow asking for them to translate the message into Xandarian seems like a terrible idea on this very Kree vessel, especially with the war thing going on between the two empires. The data pad is taken back then returned after a few finger taps and even though part of Peter dreads looking at it, he still does look at the screen then nearly rips it out of the guard’s hands in surprise because the message is in Terran English. 

“How?! Well, ok, I know how, but- I mean...” He sounds like an idiot and it earns him another snort and several snickers from the maintenance crew.

”It’s called a universal translator.” Someone in the group drawls in the most condescending tone Peter’s ever heard which is saying something. The comment is loud which meant he was meant to hear it and the Terran makes a mental note to find out who these clowns are because they officially are dicks.

“No one asked the peanut gallery.” Peter scowls at the data pad and answers the question written there. “No, I’m not having difficulty breathing.”

And he isn’t, he realizes and in the same instant remembers that he very much should be having issues given his biology. He should very well be gasping on the floor by now, his body suffocating in the nitrogen rich air around them.

“Do you have a respirator with you?” Peter asks, a bit weirded out. The guard nods and takes back the pad when he passes it back. “I think I’m just gonna clean up and figure out what happened later. As long as you’re masked, you’re welcome to come in if you want just don’t make too much noise, ‘kay?”

Peter palms the door control and keeps an eye on his new shadow via his peripheral vision as xe follows behind him into the apartment then stops dead once inside. One hand immediately flies up to cover their eyes and the Terran belatedly realizes that he should have warned them about the lighting.

“Have a seat, be comfy. If you know anything about the kitchen, let me know.” Peter sucks in a breath and blows it out as he scratches his head. “I don’t want to toss anything unnecessarily though I think that ship sailed.”

He turns and grabs more glasses off the coffee table and trudges back into the kitchen to begin the arduous task of cleaning up. He adds the new set of glasses to the sink, realizes that there aren’t any cleaning supplies, growls and begins hunting for soap or something but instead finds the dishwasher hidden under the counter and easily missed. Grinning, Peter loads all the glasses in front of him inside then goes back to the sitting room for the remainder but nearly runs into the new guard who’s standing in the entrance to the kitchen, arms full of glasses.

“Oh! Thank you!” He debates taking some of them from the other, realizes that they have them perfectly balanced, and steps out of the way instead. “Can you put them on the countertop?”

The guard nods and walks by him, bending slightly to set the whole mess on the counter top with barely a sound. Then they straighten and look around the kitchen, taking in the mess as they turn around to face Peter expectantly. The Terran glances around and sighs, throwing his hands up, lost.

”I don’t even know.” He says because he really doesn’t. “I was hoping Simon would. Or Dove, I suppose, though she might still be on rest. What time is it?” Peter pauses, then waves a hand dismissively, literally waving the thought away as he tries to stay on track. “Anyway, the science experiments on the counter have to go since there’s no way to tell what’s in ‘em. I dunno what the hell happened on the table but I’m gonna need a shovel and a prayer to ever get that clean again.”

The good mood he’d woken up with has officially evaporated and Peter mourns its loss as he looks around his kitchen again. Part of him wants to just say, fuck it, and head back to bed while another part of him has the -frankly- mean thought to just ask the newbie to call Simon and make him clean it up, but the latter option wouldn’t be fair and ultimately counterproductive in the long run. 

“Okay, cleaning supplies!” Peter claps his hands and purses his lips, frowning while he eyes the open cupboard spaces he’s already looked in and trying to think of other areas. “Where would I find cleaning supplies?”

The guard looks at him, cocks their head, then looks at an empty section of wall near the refrigerator. When Peter just looks at them blankly, they walk over and press the wall, making a section of it open up and reveal a closet full of cleaning equipment.

”Oh, my God that is driving me crazy!” The Terran fists his hands in his hair and growls in frustration. Blowing out a rush of air, Peter raids the closet for what he needs and gets to work, filling a bucket with water and attacking the mystery puddles on the floor with a mop. Thankfully the dried goo yields after a quick bout of vigorous scrubbing and the Terran moves on to another patch, grumbling loudly. “I can’t see what parts open and I just know that I’m gonna end up poking at the one section of wall that doesn’t have any, looking like an idiot- oh, no, it’s okay! You don’t have to help.”

He glances up during his complaining to see the guard has finished loading the dishwasher, has found a sponge somewhere and is attacking the countertops. 

“No, hey,” Peter flounders, watching as the guard scrubs the surface, picking up the mixing bowls of batter and setting them in the sink as they’re encountered. “Hey, uh, well shit. Do you have a name or something I can call you?”

The guard turns to face him, shakes their head, then turns back to keep cleaning the counter, attacking a particularly stubborn spot of crusty something.

Peter frowns and turns back to his task, wringing the mop out in the bucket after a moment before resuming. "Do you mind if I give you a name?"

The guard pauses in their movements and turns to face him again. They salute and give a low bow, straightening up and waiting expectantly, so Peter pauses, leaning against the mop handle, thinking. He’s never been the best at naming, usually relying on physical characteristics or personality traits but this time he doesn’t have that luxury. He also needs something gender neutral in this instance because of whatever this ‘shamed’ status is and Peter frowns, chewing his bottom lip absently as he looks the guard up and down. 

“Alex? Bobbi?” The Terran tries out slowly, trying to stick to unisex Terran names since he doesn’t know enough about Kree naming conventions to even try. He tries to dig out memories of his childhood, of the few people he had known for inspiration and realizes fairly quickly that he sucks at this. "Casey? Frankie? Harper?"

The other doesn’t react one way or another and Peter hums thoughtfully, admitting defeat. “None of those, huh? Right. I’m sorry, I’ll try and think of better choices as we’re around each other more. C’mon, lets get this done and we can get on with the day.”

They resume their respective tasks and have the kitchen relatively clean in twenty minutes, though between the two of them, Peter looks considerably worse for wear with patches of flour and mystery goo splotches on his pajamas. When they tackle the dinette table to clear the mess, Peter gets too aggressive with his wash cloth and, in a perfect moment of instant regret, ends up with a face full of flour. Blinded, the Terran holds still, groping for the trash can he knows was near his hip a second ago and tries to breathe shallowly since inhaling the fine powder won’t end well. A small hand grabs his chin and guides him forward and down so that his face can be dusted clean. When he can see, Peter sticks as much of his upper torso inside the trash can and shakes his head roughy to try and dislodge as much flour as possible.

Blinking, Peter straightens up and shifts to continue cleaning the table but a hand on his sternum stops him. Puzzled, he tries to address the guard only to be turned around to face the doorway by a strong grip on his hips and a firm shove to the middle of his back. When he doesn’t immediately move, there’s another shove, this time hard enough to make him stumble, and Peter gets the message to get out.

”Fine, fine! I’ll go get a shower and try not to get flour on the walls.” He heads down the hallway to the bathroom and tries not to touch anything as he steps inside. He gets the lights up and closes the door, taking shallow steps until so he doesn’t whack his toes on the toilet again. After wiping his hands on his pajamas, Peter tosses the soiled clothing and his new wrist accessory in a pile on the floor then raids the toiletry cabinet for necessities, leaving a big white handprint on the matte grey metal. He climbs into the shower, relishing the warm warmer pouring down on him for a few minutes before getting to work scrubbing his skin clean- his uniformly pale and healed skin!- then attacking his greasy, flour caked hair. The last time he’d bathed, he hadn’t realized that shampoo was available so he’d just used water and now he’s paying the price, having to wash his hair over and over until the shampoo was nearly half gone and the floor of the shower is a mine field of suds he has to be wary of. But unlike last time Peter can move freely, with only an occasional twinge from his bad shoulder or hip when he moves sharply, and the Terran lets himself stretch, appreciating having his freedom of movement restored as he uses a generous dollop of conditioner on his curls once he deems them fully clean. 

Turning the shower off, Peter gives himself a shake to dislodge some of the water clinging to his skin before opening the door and carefully stepping out. The last thing he wants is to take an errant step and crack his head open; there’s no bath mat to soak up the water he tracks out so Peter steps like there’s glass on the ground as he fetches a towel and dries off. 

Wrapping the towel around his waist and knotting it to keep it secure, the Terran shaves, runs a brush through his hair, and brushes his teeth then lingers a bit once he’s done, poking through the toiletry cabinet again and selecting a few items, studying the packaging as he turns back to the sink. Arranging the items on the counter top, Peter starts opening the most viable candidates and squeezing out small amounts of each onto his fingers, rubbing each sample into different sections of the back of his hand in an impromptu swatch test. Then he applies deodorant and waits because he doesn’t want to rub anything all over himself if it’s going to cause an allergic reaction. When nothing happens and all samples pass, the Terran chooses the one with the best feel and applies it to his skin from neck to toes.

Hala and most of the planets in the Kree Empire have drier, hotter climates rather than the comparably temperate ones enjoyed by most galactic species. When out in the hall earlier, he’d been reminded of that fact by how tight the drier air had made his skin feel and knows that he’ll need to take precautionary measures so that cracked skin doesn’t make him run afoul of opportunistic infections while wandering the ship. He may smell vaguely of maple syrup but it's a small price to pay for literally being comfortable in his own skin so he rolls with it and walks across the hall to his bedroom. 

This isn’t his first time trying to find his clothes in the dark or avoid waking a sleeping body so Peter forgoes turning the lights on once he's entered, opting instead to step carefully with his hands out in front of him much as he had earlier. Sliding a hand over the wall immediately to the right of the doorway makes several clicks sound as the recessed cabinets open up and the Terran activates his mask, the cool sensation of the nanites flowing over his face startling after his warm shower. The darkness resolves itself into the muted red landscape of the bedroom revealing Delphi in bed, half-curled in Peter’s previous position and now mostly covered by the sheet except for his head where the red visual filter of the Terran’s mask makes the Kree’s blue skin appear solid black. 

Peter peruses the contents of the cabinets slowly, choosing what hopefully is an outfit that will fit. Grabbing the basics, he also adds his Ravager duster and weapons to the pile before exiting. Even if they are supposed to be married, getting dressed in the same room as the sleeping Kree implies a level of intimacy Peter isn’t entirely okay with for reasons he can’t fully define so the Terran retreats to the bathroom once more. Peter deactivates his mask and tosses his duster and weapons belt over the sink for now since he’ll put it on once he’s dressed and checks out his new duds. His outfit isn’t anything spectacular but the pants are much like the ones he usually wears except black in color rather than the pale blue he prefers since they look like Terran jeans. The shirt is a white, long sleeved one with some sort of emblem embossed in two large patches over the chest that the Terran can feel with his fingers but can’t actually see despite how much he shifts the fabric around in the bright light. He debates going back for a different shirt but decides against it since the logo will be covered by his duster anyway and just hopes that the design isn’t anything vulgar- not because he has high moral standards or empathy for anyone else’s sensibilities but due to the simple fact that he can’t participate in the joke. The boxers and socks he’s nabbed are standard humanoid and are plain dark green and white, respectively, but he still appreciates their softness as he pulls on the boxers and puts the socks with his duster since the bathroom floor is still damp.

He gets dressed with minimal fuss, shrugging his shirt on and fastening his pants, finding both a bit roomier than he’d initially thought. It’s not by an excessive amount and easily explained away by the fact that everything is brand new but the detail does stick out in his mind even if it isn’t important. Tucking his shirt in, Peter grabs and fastens his holster, cinching the belt tight around his hips before picking up his socks and duster, turning off the lights as he leaves the bathroom. For a moment he dithers in the hallway, leaning against the wall for balance as he pulls his socks on and his coat, then stands there wiggling his covered toes in the plush carpet for a moment before realizing that his boots would be a good idea if he’s going outside.

Looking at the closed bedroom door, Peter chews his lip pensively and absently pats his duster, checking the contents of his pockets, part of his mind automatically cataloguing what he finds. As far as he can tell, nothing is missing so all the seemingly random and not so random stuff he regularly carries is in its rightful home, including his back up weapons and disassembled distractions. After the important stuff is accounted for, he moves on to other pockets where his hands stutter over an unfamiliar weight and, after pulling it out, Peter stares at the silver spherical object uncomprehendingly for several seconds until his brain engages enough to remember where he got the damn thing. Vindictive satisfaction floods through him as he puts his prize away, fingers caressing the oddly textured surface one last time before he fastens the interior pocket shut.

_Suck it, bitch!_ Peter thinks nastily at the blue cyborg chick because he’d been afraid he’d lost the item when he was dragged out of the downed _Milano_. It’s not like he’ll probably ever see the bounty hunter again but it’s still deeply satisfying to know that despite her interference he hasn’t lost his score. With the payout from this job, he had been planning to upgrade the fuel pump of his beloved ship, along with some other creature comfort items to make long runs more doable. 

Forty thousand units may be a tidy sum, but the amount wouldn’t be enough to replace his beloved ship and the Terran feels a hot stab of grief over the loss of his home all over again. Blinking rapidly, he runs his fingers over his lapel pockets to distract himself as his eyes begin to burn, hunting for his package of cigarettes but then he finds something extra, pulling it out carefully for examination and finding an unfamiliar communicator. Grief momentarily shoved aside by wary curiosity, Peter extracts a cigarette from the pack and puts it between his lips as he studies the sleek little black device. It's new, which automatically means it isn’t Ravager equipment; in fact it’s so new that it still has the hygiene seal on the portion that fits into the user’s ear canal.

The Terran puts his pack of cigs away but keeps the earpiece in hand as he turns, brows knitted together as he goes looking for his nameless guard, finding them in the kitchen seemingly contemplating the sink. Peter walks in and promptly proves that perhaps he should have waited to put his socks on because the moment the fabric meets the smooth floor, his feet slip out from under him. Inwardly cursing himself for his stupidity, he tries to brace himself for the inevitable body slam into the floor, thrusting his head forward and his arms back to take the impact. He feels himself falling, his body tensing instinctually, but then his abrupt descent stops as he’s caught and the sudden switch causes him to flail in surprise. The mystery earpiece goes flying and Peter feels himself turn red as the new guard holds his full weight effortlessly despite their small size. The guard, predictably, stays silent and merely sets him on his feet, keeping hold of him for a few seconds longer until they seem sure that Peter will remain upright.

The cigarette is still remarkably in his mouth though his clenched teeth have mangled the filter pretty well and Peter plucks it from his lips before coughing into his fist to clear his throat. “Thank you. I, uh, I found an earpiece that isn’t mine in my coat. You know anything about it?”

The moment he asks the question, he realizes both how unlikely and absurd it is that he expects this random guard- well not random since they’re part of his retinue theoretically- to know anything about an item that literally might have been in his coat pocket since he got here.

And that just sparks all sorts of questions, doesn’t it? How long has he been here? He feels fully recovered and recovery takes a while, right? Like broken bones and shit take at least several weeks to heal so he’s been here at least a month and a half if not two. Holy fucking shit! After two months of just falling off the map, Yondu must be going nuts if not for the loss of Peter then for the loss of a Ravager ship since it would be a huge breach of security for both their clan and all the other clans. The _Milano_ has been Peter’s baby for a while so he’s tweaked a lot of the software on board to have more fun on jobs and especially to cause havoc when he takes down Outsider ships. Taking on such nasties solo was why Peter had never disabled the internal tracker for his ship. With that thought in mind, he assuages his earlier worry that Yondu might be worried because if Peter’s right and so much time has passed, then the Centurian must have reclaimed the _Milano_ from its crash site already. 

Second in command or not, at the end of the day Peter was ultimately an acceptable loss- the ship was not. 

Ravagers never fought alone but they did often die that way. 

“Be right back!” Peter says, blinking quickly, swallowing the ugly lump clogging his throat as he takes a large step so that his foot is firmly on carpet before walking back down the hallway to the bedroom. Reaching his destination, the Terran throws open the door and lets the hall light inside to fall across the bed and Delphi’s sleeping form.

The Kree has shifted position in Peter’s absence so that Delphi’s back now faces the door, the sheets twisted around the other’s torso. The larger male has also curled up further into a ball with just his head out of the covers and Peter stares at the white hair stuck up in all directions. The Kree looks like a dandelion gone to seed, and Peter has to quickly put a hand over his mouth to smother the laugh that wants to break free at the mental image. To help get rid of the urge, Peter takes a breath then stops, frowning at the heavy scent of spearmint in the air. Unease prickling at his mind, he sniffs and shuts the door until only a crack remains for light to leak through since he still needs to see.

As a child, Peter had associated the smell of spearmint with his mother’s favorite brand of chewing gum, mint candies, mouthwash and toothpaste. Though he can’t remember why anymore, it always made him think of winter and snow, too, and it had always been a comforting smell when he was young. Then he’d been abducted and had had no time for nostalgia or small comforts, too busy trying to survive his new life while also coming down with every possible communicable disease known to galactic citizenry because his immature immune system just couldn’t keep up with his new environment. He’d been so constantly sick that most of his memories of his first two years aboard the _Eclector_ are a hazy mess of merely struggling to breathe and being so, so tired. To hear Doc and Yondu talk about it, taking care of Peter had aged the Luphomoid three decades, and had nearly bankrupted the Ravagers so badly they almost had to make an honest living in the quadrant their Clan operated out of. The Terran would call bullshit on the pair except that he's seen his medical file and it's nearly quadruple the size of anyone else who'd been aboard for the same time period because Doc's meticulous record keeping was no joke.

When Tazerface had sold Peter to the Outsiders, the Terran had imagined many things but never had he thought that he would meet a boy who reeked of spearmint when stressed. The familiar spearmint smell no longer evoked memories of Terran dental products or winter; now it just makes Peter think of an angry young Delphi, face dark blue, hands balled into fists at his side as lavender eyes glare holes into an equally young Peter cluelessly wondering where the pleasant smell following the trio around the Outsider ship once they’d taken it over was coming from. Even Hovat had thought the smell of the Kree’s sweat had been pleasant which had led to some odd moments of the pair sniffing Delphi randomly, much the Kree child’s horror. Strange, yes, but personally Peter will happily take being in close quarters with someone who smells like spearmint over someone who smells like old used socks when showers are rare. 

Peter walks toward the bed, unable to keep from frowning as he tries to figure out what is going on. There’s several perfectly reasonable possibilities to choose from to explain why the Kree is sweating so much in the quiet of the Terran’s bedroom, most of which center on the fact the Kree is in a hostile environment. As Peter does the mental math concerning the differences in humidity ratios between Terra and Hala, he reaches the bed and sits down on the edge with a whisper of well-worn leather, peering close at the other’s face in the dim lighting until his eyes adjust. 

_Oh, Del, what have you been up to?_ The Kree looks exhausted, the skin under his eyes and around his cheeks sunken in in a decidedly unhealthy way. Though he spots a Medsnap on the other’s wrist, there are no visible injuries and Delphi’s skin is merely warm under Peter’s fingers when the Terran presses a hand to the exposed skin at the back of the Kree’s neck so the sleeping male isn’t ill as far as Peter can tell. Whatever the cause, it looks like Delphi needs the rest badly so the Terran prepares to leave, knowing that he’ll just end up waking the other if he stays in the apartment.

Still though, it feels wrong to just up and leave without some sort of message that Peter will return so the Terran pats his jacket pockets until he finds the items he needs then gets to work, humming quietly under his breath. By the time he’s done, his back hurts from staying hunched over and his eyes ache from straining to see in the low light but he feels quite proud of himself when he sneaks out of the room after adjusting the enviro-controls with his boots in hand. He shuts the door quietly with a smile and heads back to the kitchen, glancing briefly at the sitting area as the guard greets him with another salute and low bow as he steps into his footwear.

“Hey,” Peter says, keeping his voice quiet as he looks from the guard to the rest of the kitchen which is as neat as a pin except for the sink. All the cleaning paraphernalia has been put away and if the Terran hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he’d never have known the room had ever been anything but pristine. “Thank you for finishing the cleaning and folding the blanket. I’m sorry for sticking you with it.”

He feels genuinely guilty about it since Peter knows what it’s like being stuck with skut work just because he’s lowest on the totem pole. When his immune system finally got its act together and he’d been able to be put to work, Yondu had stuck him with cleaning anything and everything but especially the duct work because he was one of the few who could fit inside the narrow pathways. Of course that had turned out to be a boon in disguise a few years later but, God, he’d hated cleaning, a firm believer in the adage that if you made the mess, you should be the one to clean it up.

”Ronan’s asleep in my room.” Peter says and out the corner of his eye he sees the guard go rigid. Interesting; he’d assumed the other knew but apparently not. Or maybe the guard doesn’t approve of the Kree sleeping in Peter’s bed which could mean that the other might have opinions about their relationship. The Terran tilts his head, watching the other carefully as he speaks because if this is going to be a problem, he needs to know now. “You didn’t know he was here. I’ve been told that my title is Consort, that I‘m Ronan’s consort, which is why you’ll’re outside my door to begin with. Is there a reason he shouldn’t be in my room?”

The guard shakes their head quickly, takes a small step back and then bows so low they nearly bend in half, head nearly touching the floor. They stay in that position, holding it as Peter stands there in front of them, frowning, baffled as he tries to figure out what the other is attempting to communicate.

“Ok. So,” The Terran gives up and pats the guard between their slim shoulder blades before squatting down so that his head is right next the theirs. They do not move other than to turn their head enough to look at him fully. “I don’t handle quiet real well but in your case I don’t think this’s just a personality quirk. Now, I’m not an expert on Kree culture so whatever circumstances led to you lookin’ like a ninja aren’t my business beyond a few basics as long as we’ve got us an understanding.”

Peter’s knees are starting to hurt so he rocks back to just sit on the floor proper. Doing so makes the guard rock forward in a jerky movement, as if they think he’s falling and are attempting to catch him, but due to their awkward position, their balance is off. The guard’s movement tips them too far forward and it’s only due to Peter intervention that they don’t hit the floor head first. The Terran uses their shoulders to help them regain their balance again then gets his own feet under him, rising upward and forcing the guard to stand upright with him. He gives the other’s shoulders a few friendly pats and grins when the guard’s head turns from looking at where his hands grip their shoulders up to his face in a pointed gesture.

”You don’t have to like me- a lotta people don’t which is a shame ‘cause I think I’m a real likable guy!” Taking a step back out of their personal space, Peter takes his hands away and stuffs them in his pockets. “But you’ve got a job aboard this ship and so long as you do it and don’t kill me or, uh, sell me or try to do either of the same to Del- er, Ronan, then we’re good.”

The guard tilts their head and looks him up and down in an evaluating manner and Peter tries to make his body language portray how open and honest he’s being. Whatever their looking for, they don’t seem to find it as they continue watching the Terran and Peter inwardly sighs, translating the subtle shifts in posture as a less than enthusiastic sign for their future working relationship. It’s a shame; he didn’t expect them to get on like a house on fire or anything but it would have been a nice change of pace from his usual experiences of working with others. 

Peter forces a quick smile to his lips and steps around the other to head to the fridge, morbid curiosity surfacing. Considering the state of the kitchen and the whatever mystery projects that are sitting in the sink, he doesn’t expect the fridge’s contents to have gone unscathed but he still hangs his head in defeat when he opens the door. It isn’t empty thankfully but Peter still feels a bolt of both fear and anger flash through him when he sees the sparsely populated shelves. In a moment of disconnect, he realizes that this is the first time he’s seen the contents of his fridge while fully in control of his facilities so he has no idea how truly full or not the appliance ever was. It helps chase back the disappointment over his food- Terran food, food he could safely eat- being raided by some unknown entity. His bag of oranges is half gone but, on a bright note, he discovers a mix of red and green apples in one of the produce drawers. In another drawer, he finds cheese, real fucking honest to God cheese; several blocks of sharp and mild cheddar, Munster, coby and pepper jack which Peter has never tried but he’s really looking forward to. Poking around, he finds more produce in the forms of lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, and several colors of bell pepper. For drinks there’s some sort of fruit juice that he doesn’t immediately recognize but is in English so its probably safe even if it is green, a set of water bottles, and a jug of milk- real cow’s milk- on one of the shelves near a carton of eggs that still has two intact. There are other things, baking soda, butter, some vacuumed packed protein, flour, and a few other packaged goods rounding out the list along with some Kree products he’s more or less familiar with but the fridge is definitely not as full as he remembers it being during Peter’s first encounter with it.

He grabs an apple, an orange, and a block of sharp cheddar that he cuts in two before re-wrapping half and returning it to the deli drawer. The other half and the fruit go into one of his bigger interior pockets as one of the bottles of water gets added to an identical pocket on the other side of his duster to even out the weight. A few of the ration bars he'd found earlier in a cabinet get added to a few other pockets here and there and then he’s all set.

He’s been cooped up in this room since he got here and now that he’s healed, it’s finally time to see what else is on the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally Peter’s up and about and leaving his room. The initial outline for this story had this happening earlier but the tone and context was way, WAY different. We’ve also been introduced to a new member of his retinue and getting hints of Kree culture. Yay world-building! If anyone has any thoughts/ knowledge of the Kree empire beyond Wikipedia articles, please feel free to comment and help me flesh out the world.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finally gets to go exploring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been trying to find the House that Ronan’s family belongs to. I can’t find it and it’s aggravating so if anyone knows, please point me to the necessary article. Please? Baring that, I will happily take name suggestions. Seriously. I’m not kidding- I suck at naming shit please throw me a lifeline.

The maintenance crew is still fiddling with the vent when they step out into the hallway and Peter spends a moment watching the gaggle of workers. The vent cover is off and the actual working member is already halfway inside the narrow passage on his stomach, legs sticking out next to what could be a power cable for equipment. Most of them are simply standing around while one of them is actually doing the work so it looks like some jokes about construction crews are in fact universal.

Peter frowns as he looks over the group because he’s not seeing any traces of the protective equipment needed for duct work and it bothers him immensely. When Yondu had picked him up, there hadn’t been much initially he could do since he was just too sick, too new, and just too small to really handle anything overtly taxing. But being trapped in bed with nothing to do is a special kind of hell so the Terran had begged for something to do and Yondu, the wiley bastard, had given him ship schematics to study. Once he’d finally been cleared from Medbay, Yondu had kitted him out with a full set of gear and a detailed education about the importance of protective equipment before being put to work cleaning the ducts. If he ever complained about wearing the hot equipment, all Peter had to do was look around at the rest of the scar-covered Ravager crew as a reminder of how pleasant it was to have both eyes as well as all his limbs and fingers firmly attached to his body. Though initially awful, in time Peter had not only adjusted to his duties but had also made some new friends with the duct rats living in the walls. 

The Terran takes a deep breath and holds it before letting it out and deciding to not interfere. It’s difficult but he soothes himself with the fact that all the Kree he can see have all their appendages intact and the fact that they are all adults old enough to make their own decisions. It still doesn’t sit well with him and Peter scratches the back of his head irritably as he scowls at the floor, a particular scar near his left shoulder blade aching with phantom pain as he thinks about eye protection and respirators-

Peter’s head snaps up and he heads back inside his apartment to stride straight to his bedroom, activating his mask in the process. Being mindful of the noise he’s generating, the Terran starts searching the various cupboards and storage areas enclosed in the walls, hunting for one particular object that he figures must be there given the fact that Delphi is here. Peter doubts very much that Dove or Simon would allow their leader to suffocate and after a few more minutes, the Terran finds what he’s looking for. A few minutes of staring at the thing, Peter gives up and has to quickly return to the hallway to get confirmation from his small armored companion that the machine is indeed set for a Kree user before heading back to Delphi.

“Del, can you roll over?” Peter deactivates his mask so that the synthetic voice doesn’t startle the other and places a hand over the Kree’s eyes so that the lights don’t blind him. Peter’s loathe to wake the other but he can’t move the Kree on his own; they may be similar in build but Delphi has double the muscle mass. He sets the respirator down, strokes his hand down the warm back and gently pushes at one relaxed shoulder until the Kree starts to move as directed. It’s a slow process because Delphi doesn’t exactly wake up and Peter does his best to make it simple, moving the bedclothes around Delphi as the other complies. Peter resettles the blanket over the Del then busies himself with fluffing pillows and placing them around the sleeping Kree in a kind of barricade before setting the respirator on the bed within easy reach. Peter orders the lights down, reactivates his mask, tucks some mussed strands of white hair behind the shell of one blue ear then leaves the room.

Passing the bathroom reminds the Terran of the strange bracelet he’d woken up with so he detours inside to retrieve it, carefully wiping it clean of some stray flour before putting it back on. Now that he’s remembered one item of interest, Peter remembers the earpiece he’d found and curses quietly as he spends a few minutes crawling on the kitchen floor until he finds it hidden under the refrigerator. He puts it back in the pocket he found it in to fuss with later and heads out of the apartment again.

Once out in the hallway, Peter huffs as he deactivates his mask again and looks down at this guard with an apologetic smile, absently fiddling with his new wrist accessory. “Sorry for the wait. Had to go get something.”

“Stop talking to it!” Comes the exacerbated command from someone in the maintenance crew. It’s the same voice that had made fun of Peter earlier and he scowls reflexively as he looks over to hunt for the speaker.

In the Terran's humble opinion, he's taken the ribbing admirably if not exactly well but now he’s reached his tolerance limit. “Why is your nose all up in my business, bud?”

“It is Shamed!” The voice alone reveals that it's the same dude who's been talling shit even before the guy turns around to face them, arms folded across his chest as he glares at the pair. Peter studies the other’s features, firmly filing his appearance under the 'Asshole' catagory of people the Terran has met. A blue Kree male, the man is clean shaven with short dark brown hair closely cropped to his head, blue eyes, a strong nose and thin lips. Wearing a bright orange jumpsuit uniform, he's roughly Peter’s height plus an inch and has the overall build of an athlete rather than the more muscle-bound forms common to most Kree. There’s a bright yellow armband on the guy’s right arm with what appears to be two large backwards letter J’s on it and Peter pegs him as the crew chief. “You **don’t** talk to it!”

“For the sake of argument, let’s pretend I don’t know what that means.” Peter throws his hands in the air as he walk over, his guard trailing behind him like a shadow. It’s stupid to keep having this argument across the hall, especially when there’s a high likelihood that it’s the down cycle and people are trying to sleep. “From how you’re going on about it, I’m assuming xe are under some sort of punishment. Fine, that’s their business but a person is still a person no matter what they’ve done.”

The crew chief flushes, the blue skin of his cheeks turning cobalt as he glares at Peter, a muscle under his right eye doing a jig as he talks, tone as condescending as possible. “When one is pronounced ‘Shamed,’ one forfeits their identity and right to be a person. They become a thing, like furniture. You do not talk to furniture.”

Furniture doesn’t talk to you, either, which explains the silent treatment. 

"Huh.” Peter sticks his lower lip out as he mulls that over because it is some serious food for thought. He supposes that there had to be some way to pump the breaks on an entire race that are literal one man armies; Peter just hadn’t thought that social pressure would have been it. A forfeiture of your right to be a person... Ouch. “Isn’t that interesting.”

“...Yes.” The Kree is looking at him like he can’t decide if Peter is a particular shade of stupid or mentally deranged. “Now that you have been educated in such basic-”

“So what’s the cut off?” Now that he’s thinking about it, it seems fairly important to know where the line is, what with his criminal history and all. “What’s ‘Shame’ worthy? Murder? Arson? Having an unpopular opinion? What’s considered so heinous that the only way to punish it appropriately is to strip the perpetrator of their identity?”

He’s got the attention of the whole crew now with the exception of the poor sod in the ductwork and Peter blinks at them all in confusion. He doesn’t take back his question, merely waits with his hands in his pockets, keeping his expression curious and his body language relaxed as the silence continues. 

“How do you not know?” The crew chief looks at Peter like he’s from another planet, which is entirely appropriate given the circumstances, but still.

There’s a hollow thunk from the duct and a muttered curse as the person backs out of the small opening into the hallway. The newcomer rubs the back of his bald head as he sits on the floor and, since he's nearby, Peter automatically extends a hand to help the other up. Even though he braces, Peter’s still nearly pulled off his feet as the other grips his offered hand and stands with the Terran’s help.

"Thank you." The face that looks at Peter curiously sends a punch of grief through the Terran that steals his breath because he swears he’s looking at a younger version of Ker Voh. Peter knows his smile is a bit stiffer than it should be but he soldiers on and tries to ignore the familiar orange eyes watching him. There’s a black smudge on one of the kid’s cheeks and the Terran concentrates on that to ease the ache.

“Hiya!” He says, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to the young Kree, motioning to his own cheek. The kid- and Peter’s using the term loosely because he knows that the Kree empire doesn’t do child labor unless the shit has well and truly hit the fan- rubs at the indicated area and grimaces at the grime when he pulls the cloth away. Peter watches those orange eyes drift upward toward the crew chief who simply continues to look at Peter like the Terran has lost his mind.

“Right.” Peter says when it becomes clear that he’s not going to get any answers because everyone is too busy staring at him. Usually when this happens it’s followed by his abrupt arrest so now would probably be a great time to make his exit. “Well, this has been... Educational. Don’t forget to wear your safety gear while having fun with your project.”

The Terran turns and his guard moves to the side to let him pass like a well trained dog, following at his side as Peter picks a direction at random and walks away. No one calls after him to stop or return so he counts it as a win and grins at his shadow as they turn down another corridor, his steps speeding up to more of a trot. He wants to put distance between him and the crew, paranoia nipping at his heels as he keeps walking, and takes paths at random until after fifteen minutes of power walking, he feels comfortable enough to stop. He leans against a wall, spends a moment hunting for the mangled cigarette he’d had earlier and ultimately just pulls the box from his jacket to retrieve a new one along with his lighter when he can’t. A quick look around proves that they are alone in the new corridor and that there are no smoke detectors within the immediate vicinity so after a brief shake, Peter lips a stick from the package and lights it.

“Terrible habit, I know.” The Terran concedes after he’s had a few drags, his little ninja-like guard radiating disproval beside him. He feels himself relax, the ragged edges of old grief and new anxiety being gently smoothed away with each puff he takes until he’s able to find some semblance of calm again. Peter does not condone smoking and he will absolutely rip a cigarette out of anyone’s mouth if they aren’t an adult which Yondu finds absolutely hilarious given that he considers Peter a child because of the way their respective species age. Yondu’s lived longer than any of them so it’s understandable and views anyone thats old enough to be a Ravager as an adult so it usually falls to Peter to police behavior when it comes to participation in questionable vices for the underaged. It gets him a lot of shit because no one likes a downer but Peter’s an adult and his body has finished developing which is the one thing the younger ones can’t argue against when they bitch at him about not letting them have any fun.

Peter’s by no means a model anything but he’s self aware enough to know and acknowledge that fact and, by extension, want better for those younger than him. 

It’s not the only pack on him but it is the only pack of regular Terran cigarettes since the rest of the carton he picked up was in the _Milano_. Olli, an Asgardian from the kitchens, had always wanted to try one and had been frustrated that the Terran had kept telling him no just because the kid was two standard years shy of full adulthood. Peter grimaces, hoping the kid doesn’t try to smoke them all in one go and hurt himself. That’s assuming Queenie and her hoard don’t eat them all along with anything else vaguely edible before the M Ship gets towed back to the _Eclector_. 

Now that he can concentrate, Peter decides to take another stab at naming his new companion. He directs the other to turn in a circle as he puffs away, watching their stilted movements and taking in the way the meager lighting in the hall bounces off the outfit. Taking one last drag, Peter taps off the ash and carefully puts the half used cigarette out against the sole of his boot before putting the remainder in a pocket near his collar. 

Grinding the small pile of ash absently into the floor with his heel, Peter claps his hands and grins. “Okay! So, first, thank you for turning since I can see how very thrilled you were doing it. I think I got a name for you! What do you think of ‘Penny?’”

The guard tilts their head but he can’t tell if its a considering mannerism or not. Hmm; it's gonna be a tough sell but he thinks he's got the perfect name. 

He puts his hands up, palms facing the guard in a ‘wait’ motion. “I can see you’re a cautious individual. On my planet, there is a flower called the Nemo-something Penny Black. It's black as night with a white center and white tipped petals. It's very striking- much like you.”

Black flowers are also uncommon and, honestly, the Penny Black is the only one Peter can remember at the moment. If his guard doesn’t like the current offering then Peter’ll have to swap over to his limited knowledge of mythical Terran beasts. Maybe ‘djinn,’ because of the swords? Or ‘Morrigan,’ because the outfit is reminiscent of a crow? He grimaces, already anticipating how entertaining it will be trying to explain those stories when he can only half remember them. 

The guard merely stares at him in a way that manages to project how unsatisfied they are with his idea. Peter sighs and ruffles his hair in frustration. “No go, huh? Well, shit. Was really hoping to keep my theme going.”

That gets the guard’s attention so he explains. “I met someone once and they wouldn’t tell me their name. I couldn’t keep saying ‘Hey you!’ so I gave them one based on some of their physical traits. I can’t use the same strategy with you but I need to name you something because I cannot call you ‘it.’ My boot is an it. My bed is an it. This crochet hook is an it.” He says as he pulls the item from a pocket and shows it to the guard. “You are a person. Being punished or whatever doesn’t change that fundamental fact.”

Frustrated and a bit angry with himself for getting so worked up over a cultural practice that has nothing to do with him, Peter scowls and kicks the wall lightly before turning to walk down the hall a bit to cool down. He’s projecting his own feelings of being treated as less than human into the mess and that’s not going to do him any good so he walks, concentrating on looking over his surroundings as he ambles down the empty corridor.

Other than the low omnipresent hum of the engines that power the ship, the new hallway is quiet and has the feel of disuse. It appears to be a clone of the hallway Peter’s apartment is in with multiple doors spaced generously apart but, though there isn’t any dust on the floor or cobwebs in the corners, Peter would bet money that these barracks are empty down to the last door.

“This is a big ship, yeah?” The Terran pauses, lips pursing as he looks up and down the corridor, hands absently pulling his crochet hook again from his pocket as well as some bright yellow yarn. He crochets a small chain and links it into a circle to become the center of a simple flower, his usual go-to project to keep his hands busy when he’s thinking.

The more he looks, the more none of this makes any sense. Battleships were like a small floating city that just also happens to be armed to the teeth and was supposed to have everything needed for long deployments. Given that he's aboard a Kree vessel while its empire is actively engaged in war with the Nova empire, the _Dark Aste_ r should be facing an overcrowding issue and jam-packed with staff. Even if the majority of crew are just rank and file, Peter should be having to tiptoe over people sleeping on the floor of the hallway and the fact that he isn't makes his skin itch.

_Curioser and curioser._

Completing another petal, he begins another as he steps into the middle of the corridor and looks up at the ceiling, then at either end and hums loudly through his nose. Peter files his observations away to ask either Simon or Delphi later and turns, waving his guard to follow as he begins walking down the hall. 

Brow furrowed, Peter finishes the last petal of the design and flips a blade out to cut the yarn before putting everything but the flower away, offering it to his guard with a smile. The guard takes the nickel-sized flower with great care, letting it sit on their palm and carefully stroking over the furry petals, the yellow yarn a bright point of color against the black armor. They look at Peter then back at the flower then back at Peter and the Terran huffs a laugh because he can feel the confusion of the other from a foot away. They have a point, however; what the hell are they supposed to do with it? 

“Good point.” An ill thought out gift isn’t much of one so after a moment of contemplation, Peter pulls a pair of pliers and a spool of thin black wire from his coat. He plucks the flower from the guard’s hand and after a moment of tinkering, puts his tools away and hands back a small ring with the flower as its center piece. “Ta da!”

The guard stares at the ring on their palm with such intensity that Peter feels his brief moment of accomplishment vanish like water down a drain. Well, never mind then; just as he’s about to take the ring back, the guard slips it on the middle finger of their right hand, flexing their fingers a bit until they're apparently satisfied with how it sits. A moment later, the guard pulls their data pad from their backpack and types out a message. 

“‘Penni is fine.’” Peter reads aloud and smiles, ignoring the misspelling since it really doesn't matter. He extends his hand to the guard who takes it tentatively and goes with it when the Terran gives it a few pumps in greeting. “My name is Peter Jason Quill and it is a pleasure to meet you Penni. Now, to paraphrase Hamlet, methinks something is rotten in the state of Denmark. I wanna see as much of this boat as possible before calling it a day. Can you help me?"

* * *

Penni, to their credit, tries to give Peter exactly what he asks for and he knows after a few hours that he’s going to feel every step later because the gravity of the ship is heavier than he’s built for. They pass through several more corridors, all empty except for more maintenance crews poking around in the ducts. They get a lot of looks that the pair ignore and the Terran feels his frown deepen every time they pass by a crew not only because none of them are wearing protective gear but also because its just odd that so much ductwork is going on. Could simply be the day for it, for all he knows, but Penni doesn’t know either when he asks them so it remains a nagging mystery that Peter’s got to live with as they stick their heads in the mess hall. There a handful of sleepy-eyed individuals sitting at the long tables in the otherwise empty room and most of them are pink skinned Kree though there are a few blue ones scattered about. All of them seem to be nursing a cup of what he assumes is the Kree equivalent of coffee with their breakfasts. A few of the more alert individuals catch sight of the odd pair and Peter waves as Penni leads him to the next stop on their little tour.

“‘This is the Command Center.’” Peter reads off the tablet screen as they stop by a particularly impressive doorway. The portal isn’t ornate or anything but it does indeed look fairly heavy duty with its reinforced doorjamb and the gap in the floor directly below nearly two inches wide. As far as security doors are concerned there’s nothing special about it other than its thickness but the Terran makes a low whistle and winces at the prospect of being caught under the damn thing when it comes down. Upon further examination, Peter realizes that there’s no access terminal on the outside so the door must come down only during emergencies like the portcullisis that old Terran castles used to have. He doubts that there’s any thing to it other than an aesthetic choice but, still, when every other door he’s seen opens by splitting down the middle, it strikes him as odd to suddenly find one that drops like a guillotine.

The room is as ill lit as the rest of the ship has been thus far and the gloom is giving Peter an awful headache. From what he can see of his immediate surroundings, it’s a long room with work stations along either side of the room and a clear path down the middle wide enough that four Kree of Simon’s build could walk comfortably shoulder to shoulder. Some of the work areas are manned, but only a handful and that just reinforces the idea that the ship is in its down cycle. The pair get a few alarmed looks from the officers stationed there and Peter smiles and waves a greeting, trying to look as if he has every right to be there even as the hair on the back of his neck begins to stand up from all the staring. 

As the pair walk further in, he spots a throne-like chair against the wall positioned perpendicular to the walkway so that whoever sits there has an unobstructed view straight down the path to the floor to ceiling window situated on the other end of the room. Peter doesn’t try out the throne and doesn’t want to mostly because the damn thing appears to be made of the same stone-like material used in the rest of the ship’s construction. It looks uncomfortable as all get out, blocky and massive like someone shifted leftover concrete blocks into a seat, and makes Peter’s backside hurt just looking at it.

The seat has to be the Captain's chair- from the placement and size, there's just no way it isn't.

“If I knit him a pillow, do you think he’d use it?” Peter asks absently as he frowns at the chair, not understanding how Del can sit in the damn thing comfortably without some sort of cushioning. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Penni start, then turn their head to stare up at him pointedly and the Terran looks back at them blinking innocently. “Something with color, bright yellow or maybe a pale pink to liven up the place? Maybe a matching blanket to lay over the back in case he gets cold?”

"Access to this area is restricted." The Accuser states, her frown deepening severely as she stares first at Peter and then at Penni. "You are not allowed to be here."

Its unsurprising when their presence attracts attention but while Peter gets looks of suspicion and confusion, Penni gets blatant disdain. Due to the helpfulness of the maintenance crew, he’s been clued in a bit as to why others might not be happy to see his little guide so he tries to steele himself againt the near knee-jerk defensiveness that keeps trying to take control of his mouth. He knows that continuosly taking offense on Penni's behalf won't solve anything but its so damn hard to be civil when he's having flashbacks to his childhood, specifically to interactions with certain parents and teachers. The whole situation just stirs up his anger and makes being pleasant difficult but he tries, dredging up a smile as he steps away from his contemplation of the throne, and steps forward to meet the female Accuser who has stalked over to them, datapad in hand. 

“My bad,” Peter says, consentrating on keeping his voice pleasant if not outright appologetic. He extends his hand for a handshake and pulls out his best smile. “Hi, I’m Peter, Peter Quill. I’m, uh, new to the ship and my... guide was just showing me the major landmarks. We’ll get out of your hair then. Didn’t mean to be a disturbance.”

The Accuser looks at his hand and ignores it, instead stepping to the side to peer around him at Penni with narrowed eyes. "Your _guide_ should not allow you to wander freely. Stay there- I will get you a proper escort."

She begins typing on her data pad, her expression stern as she keeps them in sight, and Peter sighs through his nose as he takes his ignored hand back. He shifts a bit to the side and plunks down on the closest arm of the throne, shrugging at Penni as he pulls out his crochet hook and yarn again to make another flower. 

“You cannot sit there!” If looks could kill, Peter would be ash on the spot as the Accuser glares at him. Blinking, the Terran looks up from his new project to look at the Accuser, then down at his seat, then up again at the Accuser as she continues to glare daggers at him.

“This seat belongs to Ronan, right?” Peter asks, annoyed that he’s being hassled while sitting quietly and waiting for security to arrive. He waits for her to confirm that, yes it is indeed Ronan’s chair, and cannot help the smirk he gives her as he returns his attention to crocheting another petal. “Then he’s not going to mind if I’m sitting here.”

“And how would you know that?” The Accuser’s expression doesn’t shift but her duel-toned voice crawls down into gratingly low levels which means she’s really angry. Yeah, well, so is Peter so she can just suck it.

“Because he’s sleeping in my room, in my bed, so I’m fairly certain he won’t mind me sitting here.” The Terran quips, officially done playing nice with the woman. Peter’s fairly certain Delphi won’t mind where the Terran sits though for all he knows, the Kree could be as territorial about his sitting pieces much like Peter is about his food. It's just yet another thing that both men will discuss and solve between themselves once they are able. It is not, however, territory for a third party to arbitrarily pass judgement. 

Keeping her eyes on him, the Accuser steps away to set down her datapad on a nearby console before returning. He expects her to stop once she reaches her prior placement but she doesn’t, continuing to approach the pair with no signs of stopping, her expression drawn tight with anger. Her shift in demeanor translates through her body and bleeds out in her walk, in how she holds her fists loose at her sides and Peter forces himself to remain calm as he watches her approach.

She may have the physical strength to literally punt him into the window on the other side of the room but Peter's used to brawling in confined spaces. He's also armed but he really doesn't want to escalate things to that level unless things get really out of hand so by the time she gets within grabbing distance, the Terran is already dropping his crocheting and moving as an alarm starts blaring in the distance. He throws himself backward, tucking his head so he doesn’t crack it open on the sharp edges of the throne as he tumbles over the arm rest and onto the actual seat.

He’s not anticipating help but he gets it in the form of Penni who moves viper quick to intercept the Accuser, standing like a small blockade in the other’s path, feet braced to keep her balance and hands up to defend against a blow. The size difference between the pair is comical and Peter finds himself scrambling to his feet to help, fully expecting his diminutive guard to go flying when the combatants connect. It is therefore very much a surprise when Penni not only takes the delivered hammer blow but redirects the attack's momentum to send the Accuser stumbling backward a few steps. 

The pair square up again, neither backing down, and the Terran realizes that this is about to veer into absolute shit-show territory unless he intervenes.

“Whoa, time out!” Peter gets between the pair, hands out to ward both back but his words are directed at the Accuser who looks like she wants nothing more than to break the Terran over her knee. “I won’t touch the chair again, jeez lady! Calm down so we can talk about this like civilized adults!” 

Penni loops an arm around Peter’s middle and just fucking lifts the Terran to stand behind them. It happens so fast that it takes the Terran a moment to realize what’s happened and he scowls even as he pulls his blaster and aims his blaster at the Accuser, changing the charge strength to a more non-lethal setting. Peter’s sure the female Accuser has to be an officer of considerable merit if she’s been put in charge of the helm during the ship’s down cycle. Simon had implied that Peter had free reign over the ship, that as Consort he was allowed anywhere aboard, but maybe, maybe no one knew who he was? Until now, Peter had been in his room because he was too injured to go anywhere so it’s not like Delphi could introduce him to anyone. 

Maybe this is all just a massive communications fuck-up and they have no idea who he is?

Later this will probably be a tale they will all collectively laugh over once Delphi is awake but, as other crew member stand from their desk, reaching for weapons or hitting buttons that activate more alarms, the Terran has to concentrate on the here and now before this fight becomes a full on brawl. No one’s bleeding yet but Peter better do something fast if he wants that trend to continue. Using his free hand, he puts his forefinger and thumb between his teeth and whistles loudly, producing three short piercing bursts of sound that seem to echo off the walls and make sure that he’s the center of the room’s attention. 

“Everyone calm the fuck down!” Peter feels like he’s suddenly become the ringmaster at a three ring circus and he is not thrilled about it. It doesn’t help that he’s having to shout because the alarms in the background have grown loud enough to wake the dead. With no idea if his new position is public knowledge or not, Peter uses his only trump card and hopes. “My name is Peter Quill and I am Consort of this vessel so let’s all just take a breath and-”

It is, of course, now while he’s got the helmswoman at gunpoint and shouting demands that the ship’s internal security team shows up. Unlike the Nova Corps who will negotiate and talk when they arrive to what appears to be a hostage situation, the Accusers don’t fuck around and before Peter can explain or drop his blaster, he and Penni both are tackled to the floor, buried under several hundred pounds of armored Kree security personnel.


End file.
